


by only me is your doing,my darling

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BDSM, Courtship, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Falling In Love, Fisting, Genderbending, Identity Issues, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Objectification, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Queer Themes, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, romantic BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I appear to have committed Omegaverse. Unsurprisingly, the plot of my first Omegaverse story is rather queer. Mpreg exists in this universe, but it won't be part of the plot (also, the biological meaning of "male" and "female" are a bit different here). This is also my first attempt at Mystrade, and I must say I'm enjoying it.</p><p>Warning for discussions of coercion in a sexual situation and a kind of homophobia/transphobia in the context of this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. here is the deepest secret nobody knows

"I can't take it anymore," Sherlock declares, facing Greg in his dingy little flat with a somewhat combative body posture, only a few inches from his nose. Greg's accustomed enough to Sherlock's weird body language, but this is still rather out-of-the-blue, coming after the end of a case and Greg reluctantly confessing upon interrogation that yes, he and his wife have not only been separated for the majority of the time since Sherlock's been clean but the divorce papers just went through this week. Greg's honestly surprised it took Sherlock this long to figure it out, but the case itself was rather diverting. 

"What can't you take?" Greg sighs, dropping into an armchair and rubbing his face with one hand. He's tired enough after chasing leads at all hours that he really just wants to go home and to bed, but Sherlock clearly isn't having it. "The usual response to such a revelation is 'I'm sorry,' by the way, in case you cared," he mutters.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, gesturing in the air. "Why would I be sorry? She was completely wrong for you, and you were hardly going to work it out given the availability of Manly Mister Alpha-You-All-Before-Tea…"

"All right!" Greg interrupts, glaring. He really doesn't need to hear more about his wife's boyfriend, certainly not from Sherlock. Maybe he's right, maybe they were wrong for each other, but he's still an Alpha, he still has pride, and that wound is still raw enough. It certainly doesn't help that Sir Manly Alpha now has the privilege of living with Greg's young children while he's relegated to a one-room flat frankly not much nicer than Sherlock's. "What are you on about, Sherlock, really?"

"You!" Sherlock jabs his finger at Greg, then hops backwards into the opposite chair, crouched upon it in a stance that is half-predatory, half-over-excited. "You don't make any sense."

"Why, because I'm getting divorced?"

"No, no," Sherlock waves a hand. "That's only part of it. You're not the way you're supposed to be."

"Excuse me?"

"As an Alpha."

"Oh now wait just a minute," Greg growls, pushing back up to his feet angrily. If Sherlock thinks he can simply insult Greg, to his face, for a lark like this, he has another thing coming. But Sherlock is just as quick, meeting him face-to-face again, and his eyes lock on Greg with a look that is just as intense as, and yet somehow different from, the one he reserves for interesting corpses.

"Lestrade.  _Sit_.  _Down._ "

The tension leaks out of Greg's knees in a rush and his arse hits the chair, not at all graceful, his expression incredulous as he looks up at Sherlock.

"Hmm. Thought so." Sherlock's own expression is back to deduction-mode, and a little triumphant.

Greg frowns. "Thought what?"

"I wasn't trying to insult you, Lestrade. But you're  _not_  like other Alphas. Everyone knows that. You run things differently. You're competent at your job, but you're not like the other Detective Sergeants. You're more methodical, more intent on questions than answers. You guide your people into place rather than simply putting them there. You want feedback, and you appreciate approval. For God's sake, you let  _me_  consult on your cases, and that's hardly usual."

Greg scowls. "I didn't exactly let you, Sherlock, you marched onto my scene and then I got some vaguely threatening messages from up top ensuring that I'd let you stay."

"My brother," Sherlock agrees dismissively. Greg's never met the elder Holmes, but he does know he had something to do with said permissiveness regarding Sherlock's presence at the Yard and his consulting capacity. "But that's not the point. You responded to those messages, and you're grateful to have me as an option when needed. You appreciate me," Sherlock declares, and Greg wonders if he imagines the gratitude in Sherlock's eyes. Must be. "Anyone else would balk, and attempt to thwart me at every turn. Which  _means_ ," he continues, "There's something different about you as an Alpha."

Greg sighs and rubs his temples. "Yes, I know I'm not the most dominant one of the lot, Sherlock. I'm hardly unaware of that. But there is a spectrum." He's careful with his wording. Sherlock  _is_  onto something, but it's a confusing something that Greg himself hasn't fully sorted out despite all his years living in this body, and he's afraid how much he can go into. He does have a job at stake, after all.

"A spectrum onto which your behavior doesn't fit," Sherlock challenges, his tone dismissive or the defense. "Certainly some Alphas are more or less dominant, but you're  _not_." Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You're not dominant at all."

"I've been tested," Greg says quietly. He doesn't have the energy to respond combatively. He just feels weary, if he's being honest. "Trust me, I  _am_  an Alpha." There are stiff penalties for pretending otherwise, and he never would've made it in the police force if he'd been one of those pretenders. Medical checkups are routine, and the cases in which an Omega is somehow born with Alpha parts, an ambiguity that has to be surgically corrected, are extremely rare. He's not one of those--Omega pheromones attract him just like any other Alpha, quite markedly in some cases. Sherlock doesn't look deterred, however.

"I wasn't challenging that. I don't think you're intersex, Lestrade," Sherlock says in a mediated tone, almost gentle. "But I don't think you're  _dominant_. And I think you've struggled with that. I think you never were able to dominate your wife, and that's why she left."

" _Sherlock_." Greg's a bit horrified, meeting his eyes. "You  _cannot_  share your conclusions with…"

"Shush. I wasn't planning on it, honestly, why would I care?" Sherlock brushes the warning aside and sits in the chair again, this time a little more like a normal person with an ankle crossed over the opposite knee. "Others' opinions are irrelevant, but your situation is a fascinating data point, and you're not even smart enough to understand it."

"Oh, gee, thanks a  _lot_."

"I  _am_  trying to help you, Sergeant. Think. What motive do I have otherwise?"

Greg sighs. He does have a point. Sherlock's access to cases certainly wouldn't be helped by Greg's position in society being jeopardized. Alpha or no, this sort of irregularity would likely put his ability to serve in question, certainly his eligibility for promotion. He hasn't talked to anyone about it precisely due to that risk. Perhaps he'd be barred from service like an unbonded Omega or worse, perhaps he'd be committed. He gives himself a moment, then nods. "All right. Go on. As long as you promise to keep your mouth shut around the Yard."

Sherlock nods. "I need more information to draw a conclusion. You're attracted to Omegas."

"Yes. Of course."

"And you were married. You successfully conceived, twice."

"Obviously."

"But she wasn't happy, ultimately. I don't imagine you're particularly dominant in bed."

" _Christ_ , Sherlock," Greg sighs. "Isn't that personal?"

"It's important to understanding your situation. Dominance is generally assumed to be an Alpha trait, is it not? Penis equals sexual and social dominance, end of, simple as that. I have a theory."

"Of course you do."

"The correlation isn't perfect. There are outliers, such as yourself. I don't think you're at the bottom of the spectrum; in fact, I don't think you're on it at all." Sherlock's eyes are gleaming with the light of science, and Greg wants to crawl into a hole. At least Sherlock doesn't seem particularly judgmental about it. He doesn't seem to  _care_ , beyond the opportunity for experimentation this situation presents. Greg suspects Sherlock might be asexual, for all the interest he shows the Omegas most Alphas strut and fawn over. "I think you're sexually and socially  _submissive,_  as if you were an Omega, but you're not an Omega at all. Not chemically, not physically. You're attracted to Omegas, and then the wires cross, because what you want doesn't register for your partners. Probably didn't register for your wife. The question is, why did she marry you?"

"Oh, thanks," Greg spits, glaring at him. Sherlock just raises his eyebrows and waits until Greg relents. "She did need me once. It wasn't non-consensual, if that's what you're insinuating. We fit well together."

There's a long pause as Sherlock goes still, running scenarios through his head, Greg assumes. "She's perfectly submissive," Sherlock murmurs. "I've met her. She deferred to me, all very proper."

"Yeah. She's fairly average, I suppose, as Omegas go."

"So if it's not that…  _ah_." Sherlock looks vaguely uncomfortable, shifts minutely in his chair. "She had a history of physical or sexual abuse. She continued to be attracted to Alphas, but she badly needed safety. Thus… a safe choice. An Alpha without any real dominant tendencies. Without a risk of violence."

Greg shrugs, a bit uncomfortable. "It did work well. For a time. She liked my gentleness. Everything fit together…" He coughs. "Quite literally, as well. Hence the children."

"But it couldn't last," Sherlock concludes. "Once safe, for a time, she needed the thrill of an opposing dynamic again. She needed a dominance you couldn't provide. Hence the other man."

"Hence," Greg agrees. He's still bitter, even if it is what's right for her, even if it makes sense. It's hard for him to let go of what he saw as his only real chance at a lasting relationship. He doesn't think he'll ever quite be at peace with it.

"What attracts you, then?" Sherlock asks, after a long pause. "Is it the perversity of it? I imagine your Alpha nature runs contrary to your need to be submissive. The children are proof that you still… fuck." He says it crisply, without embarrassment, though Greg's cheeks do color. "So you must still have that dominance, counter to your general nature. Is it frustrating?"

Greg just glares at him, running his hand through his hair. "I am not having this conversation with you."

"Data, Lestrade! I can't help you without data!"

"Oh, would that help you, then? To know all my sick perverted fantasies?"

"In fact it would! It would be most enlightening!"

"Fine, then, Sherlock, I just want to be some Omega's bloody sex toy, is that enlightening enough for you?" Greg exclaims, worn down by his week and the conversation and half hoping he can shock Sherlock into kicking him out. "I want someone to use me for whatever the fuck they'd like, and it's not perverse at all, it's just fucking  _normal_ , and you know what else? All this fuss about sticking it in and ruling the goddamned world is just disgusting. I don't feel any bloody internal tension, I feel like the entire pornographic industry is a bunch of rot designed to make me vomit. So I'm sorry if my penis doesn't have the fucking meaning I'm supposed to attach to it. I suppose I haven't read enough up on my Freud."

Greg huffs out an annoyed breath, crossing his arms, and watches as Sherlock observes him for a long minute. "You should meet my brother," he finally replies, suddenly, apropos of nothing.

" _What_?"

Sherlock stares at him another minute, then stands, opening the front door and gesturing. "I'll set it up."

Greg stands, warily, deciding that Sherlock's finally gone right round the bend, or maybe just doesn't want to look at him after hearing the kinds of things Greg thinks about late at night when no one has to know. Either way, he's tired enough not to argue, and gathers his coat to head home. Bloody Holmes.

\---

The Diogenes Club is like something out of a film, and Greg feels decidedly out of place. He's only agreed to the meeting to get Sherlock out of his hair, and he still doesn't know why he's here when a uniformed man leads him silently to the richly appointed office where Mycroft waits. The first impression he has of the elder Holmes brother, in a word, is  _established_. He looks as though he was born in the high leather-backed chair, behind the imposing mahogany desk, and in the three-piece dove gray suit he wears with ease, right down to the folded cream handkerchief and French cuffs. Greg stands near the door and coughs, not sure what he's supposed to be doing or even whether his entrance has been noticed. The man dashes off what's presumably his signature on a paper in front of him and then looks up with a warm smile.

"Detective Sergeant. Please come in."

"Uh, it's Greg. Greg Lestrade," he says as the door shuts behind him and he steps further into the office, feeling a bit like a boy summoned to the headmaster. Granted, his headmaster was much older than this man with the ginger hair and aristocratic nose, and much less comfortable-looking in his own skin. Mycroft Holmes exudes his Alpha nature from every pore, dominance rolling over Greg in waves just from a look. He feels uncomfortable standing above the other man, and sits in a red leather chair opposite the desk as soon as he can, resisting the urge to bite his lip.

"Gregory. My brother told me about you. Fascinating."

"He did?" Greg hopes that didn't come out as a squeak. He's wondering  _how much_  Sherlock divulged, especially given the context in which Mycroft's name initially came up. Sherlock's been normal around him for the past few weeks until this appointment was made, no indication as to his disgust at Greg's sexuality or distrust in Greg as a police officer. But Greg remembers the circumstances under which he'd first learned of the brother, the letters from an unknown authority at Scotland Yard, and he blanches. This is it, then. Sherlock's an excellent liar, and Greg is about to have his livelihood stripped out from under him. He wonders if they'll let him live with his sister, at least. He's never heard good things about mental institutions.

"Gregory," the man practically purrs. " _Relax_."

There's something of a command in it, and Greg does, in spite of himself. He's always found himself unusually vulnerable to other Alphas' orders, though he masks it well. This man's order seems to affect him even more than most, and he can't hold the tension in his limbs or keep his anxious train of thought even with effort. He doesn't shift as Mycroft rises from his chair, and the room is silent as the other man walks around to Greg's side of the desk. "This isn't a business meeting. In fact, Sherlock was quite uncomfortable to discuss you with me, but he must have imagined the coincidence too great not to inform me."

Greg looks up at the man who is now towering over him, which somehow feels more  _right_ than their earlier positions. His smile is gently patronizing, or maybe something else--Greg can't quite read it, much less glean any meaning from Mycroft's abstract words. If it's not a business meeting, then what is it? Why is he here? But his train of thought is interrupted when Mycroft unexpectedly removes the cuff link from his left wrist, shrugs his jacket sleeve up, and presents the inside of his wrist just under Greg's nose. Instinctively, he inhales, frowns, and then takes a deeper breath.

_Omega_.

Greg's eyes dart up to Mycroft, completely taken aback. The scent is faint when he indulges in a third sniff, barely there under some generic-smelling mask of lotion or cologne, and he never would have caught it from a distance greater than a few centimeters, perhaps even then not had he not been directed to look for it. But his nose doesn't deceive him, and despite the man's  _utter_  Alpha nature-- _dominance_ , he corrects, as his mind is starting to peel those two words apart since his conversation with Sherlock, and he's beginning to wonder if his internal description of his desire-objects as "Omegas acting as Alphas" wasn't quite right after all--Greg is definitely smelling an unbonded Omega.

"Holy  _shit_ ," he whispers, and Mycroft responds with a short, sharp laugh, his whole face lighting up. Greg's answering grin is roguish, a bit sheepish, and he suddenly wants to see that genuine expression from Mycroft again.

"Indeed," the younger man murmurs, neatly replacing the pearl cufflink and righting the sleeve before he takes a single step back from Greg's chair. He doesn't return to his own, though, still staring down at Greg with a look that's quite calculating, reminiscent of his brother but with something more powerful underneath. Some motive at which Greg won't even guess.

"Your secret is safe with me," Mycroft says after a moment, "and mine with you." It's not a question, but Greg nods anyway. Perhaps Mycroft would have more to lose, but Greg has no doubt Mycroft could  _bury_  him nonetheless, and besides Greg has no desire to reveal anything about Mycroft Holmes. "I suppose the obvious next step, in Sherlock's estimation, would be for us to shag like bunnies," Mycroft continues drily, his lips quirking into a sarcastic smile. Greg chokes on his own saliva, hacking unattractively, and tries to recover as Mycroft walks over to the sideboard to pour a glass of water, still speaking as if uninterrupted. "I refuse to mate with you simply because we are so rare, however. You may have deduced that I am somewhat old-fashioned."

Greg just stares up at him, red-faced, as he accepts the water and sips gratefully. It's rather obvious, given the décor of the room, but he just nods, looking for the segue.

"I want to court you," Mycroft says to Greg, his tone direct but his volume low. Greg swallows hard. He can't pull his eyes away from Mycroft's, and he just nods.

"Okay. What… does that mean?"

Mycroft smiles a little, presumably at Greg's idiocy, and paces a slow circle around Greg's chair. Though the act of pacing is reminiscent of Sherlock, the style of movement is very different, slow and controlled rather than a bit spastic with hands waving. Greg is reminded of a predator circling his prey.

"Are you aware of the origin of courting? Perhaps your parents or grandparents partook?"

Greg nods, clearing the fog with a little shake of his head when Mycroft isn't looking. "Yeah, my mum… she told me about it once. It's a ritual for Alphas to… well, to gain access to Omegas, really. A bit of social formality for the parents and a way for the Alpha to impress the Omega enough that the Omega'll let the Alpha knock 'em up," Greg explains, and then blushes. "Uh. Sorry."

Mycroft laughs. "No, you're quite right. It's quite a proper ritual, but the purpose is rather uncouth in the end. Rather… intimate." He pauses in his circle then, facing Greg, and leans back against the front of his desk, hands on the wood, one ankle crossing in front of the other. He's very much in charge of his realm, and Greg's really hoping Mycroft can't see that he's starting to get an erection. "Of course my desire to court you is motivated by somewhat different considerations, and in truth it has little to do with your parents, if they are living."

Greg shakes his head, and Mycroft nods. "My condolences. The purpose, in any event, as a dominant Omega, is for me to determine whether I would like to grant access to my body to you, the submissive Alpha. I believe such a period of getting to know one another is appropriate, do you agree?"

Greg gulps and nods. He's never heard it put that way, indeed, he's never known anyone else like himself who would need to be described at all.  _Submissive Alpha. Christ_.

"I… would like that. Please." Mycroft grins like the Cheshire cat, and Greg can't hold back a visible shiver. All he can think of is the words "grant access to my body," and how the  _hell_  he's going to manage to get Mycroft to do that, something that he'd suddenly like very much indeed. It's not just the power in this man with an Omega scent, but also the calmly assessing eyes, the lean but towering form, the way Mycroft holds himself. Mycroft holds his eyes like he can read Greg's mind.

"The world is often so  _wrong_ , is it not, Gregory?" Mycroft suggests, and Greg feels a flood of relief at realizing, beyond Mycroft's sexual preferences, that there is actually someone else in this world who truly  _knows_  that feeling, the feeling he had expressed to Sherlock of everything being just a bit backwards and perverse. Mycroft winks and steps forward, ever-so-briefly pressing his hand to the back of Greg's neck in a gesture that's normally done by an Alpha with an intimate connection to the other party. "I believe this will be a refreshing change of pace," he murmurs, and then continues past Greg's chair, leaving the room. Greg takes a deep breath and almost deflates like a balloon, slumped in Mycroft's office chair, grinning like a lunatic. Well, then. The game is on.

\----

"It's almost embarrassing that I didn't recognize it before," Sherlock mutters, back to pacing though this time in Greg's flat, uninvited. "I suppose little research has been published in the area, hardly a surprise…"

"Sherlock, what exactly are you on about? And why are you here?"

"I need to conduct some experiments."

"On me?"

"Well, yes. Of course."

Greg raises his eyebrows. "Not without telling me what kind of experiments or what you're up to, you're not."

Sherlock rolls his eyes but evidently concedes, facing Greg with his arms across his chest. "The other night, when I deduced your secret. The conclusive proof I needed was when I successfully dominated you."

" _Excuse_  me?"

Another eye roll. "Well, the technical term is 'to command with dominant intent,' but it's really just a particular form of dominance. I told you to sit, and you sat. Without thinking about it. Instinctively."

Greg blushes. "Yeah, all right. So?"

"Well, nearly everyone simply assumes that such an ability is related to pheromones. Even some textbooks state it without providing a source."

"What, that Alphas can do the ordering about because they release a pheromone? Yeah, I remember that from sixth form biology. If an adult Alpha issues a command with dominant intent, they release a pheromone that the Omega senses and then instinctually responds to."

"Wrong!"

Greg sighs. "I'll bite. Why?"

"Simple, Lestrade. Have you ever successfully issued such a command, and had it obeyed?"

Greg frowns. "Well I think so. I've told an Omega to do something before and they've done it."

"Perhaps, but unlikely due to any chemical reason. Presumably you both thought that was the case, and an Omega's instinct is to submit. They'd have no reason to challenge your order in the case that you felt it necessary to give one, which isn't very often according to my observations. I'm certain you're not capable of issuing such a command."

"Gee, thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock flicks a hand in the air. "My point is that your textbook got it wrong. As you are an Alpha, if it was a matter of pheromones, you would be able to issue such a command successfully, and any Omega would respond. Furthermore, you would have no instinct to respond to such commands from other Alphas. But the other night, you did as I said, without consciously wanting to or feeling submissive to me."

"So it's not chemical?"

"Not on both sides. And it isn't pheromones. I believe, though further experimentation is required, that what in fact occurs in such a situation is that members of a certain subset of the population--almost all Omegas--have an instinctive response to  _observing_  such a command issued with dominant intent. I believe that when someone with the ability to do so--almost always an Alpha--issues such a command, there is something in voice or body language that triggers a chemical reaction in the recipient's brain, causing that person to obey. Furthermore, I believe that the biological imperative for such a response is mapped almost entirely onto Omegas, but that there are exceptions, as there are exceptions to the general rule that the dominant ability maps onto Alphas."

"You think Mycroft and I are two of those exceptions," Greg concludes quietly, turning it over in his head.

"Exactly. I've seen him do it hundreds of times, but I could never be entirely sure because I couldn't know that Omegas weren't simply consciously choosing to obey when they perceived him as dominant. But you don't have any reason to do as I tell you--thus, you're the corollary that cements my theory."

"Your theory?" Greg prompts.

"I hypothesize that the dominant and submissive behavior patterns are not, as previously thought, correlated one hundred percent to Alphas and Omegas, respectively. They are a completely separate biological phenomenon, and in rare cases they present as they do in you and Mycroft."

"Sherlock," Greg says suddenly, eyes wide. "You can't publish research on this."

Sherlock frowns. "Why not?"

"Because even if you're right, society is far too entrenched on Alphas and Omegas. It would freak people out, no one would believe you, and most likely both Mycroft and I would lose our jobs."

"But…"

"No. Sherlock,  _no_. Think about it. You know I'm right. Research if you like, but you have to keep these theories private."

Sherlock frowns. "Lestrade…"

"Sherlock."

"Fine," he sighed. "I won't release any data. Though it  _pains_  me to agree to this."

Greg can't help but smile. "I know. And I'm grateful, really I am. It's just too big of a risk."

"Not necessarily. I want to think about how that risk might be mitigated. But I promise I won't publish anything without your consent. All right?"

Greg nods. "Mine and Mycroft's. What sort of research do you intend to do, anyway?"

"Well, I'd need to start with autistic and Deaf subjects, obviously."

"Obviously." Greg rolls his eyes.

"Such studies have never been conducted, and they would be the most obvious way to prove it if the response is based on recognition rather than a reaction to chemical signals. We'll test the theory as well using distance and physical barriers against pheromone transmission. And ideally, I'll need to devise a way to extrapolate, to determine whether such a biological predisposition goes  _beyond_  a response to commands, whether it's more universal… I don't suppose I could take a large-scale survey of sexual fantasies, though, without IRB approval…"

Greg just smiles fondly, leaving Sherlock to his muttering, and goes to the kitchen to survey his contents. Might as well start tea. Christ knows he'll be a while….

\---

"I suppose I should thank you," Mycroft says after they've ordered hors d'oeuvres and wine--or more accurately, after Mycroft's ordered, which sent a little frisson down Greg's spine as he didn't ask whether it was okay, despite that act normally being reserved for Alphas. Greg's always been able to follow these little cultural cues well enough, but he's also always felt like he was faking it, so it's a relief to sit back and let Mycroft take charge. The restaurant is small and their table is quite private, tucked away in a corner where their conversation can go unnoticed.

"Thank me for what?" Greg asks, baffled.

"For dissuading my little brother in his enthusiasm for potentially damaging research," Mycroft responds with a teasing smile. Greg laughs and shakes his head.

"I may have overreacted. You have a lot of power in your career, I imagine you could keep it even if people knew."

"Perhaps, but it wouldn't make anything easier for me. For you, either. I appreciate your preference for discretion."

"Mm." Greg smiles, saying no more as the sommelier arrives with the wine and pours a first taste for Mycroft to approve. Greg tries not to eye him too obviously as Mycroft breathes in the Cabernet's aroma and swirls it in the glass, signaling his approval for the sommelier to pour. He looks terribly at home in this posh environment, with his perfectly-cut suit and smart red tie. Greg feels a bit drab in contrast, even his best grey suit not quite a match for the exclusive establishment where several kneeling Omegas are adorned with diamond-studded collars. Nonetheless, Mycroft doesn't comment on or seem to care about Greg's appearance, and he's grateful.

"How long were you married?" Mycroft inquires politely after Greg's taken his first sip.

"Five years. You didn't know?"

Mycroft's smile is shark-like. "I thought it polite to pretend that I didn't."

"Oh, I'm certain you've researched me." Greg laughs. "But that's all right. Being who you are, I suppose you'd have to."

"I'd rather hear it from your lips," Mycroft parries. "Besides, the records don't tell me about your life before her. I don't know if you dated, if you ever came close to a bond."

Greg shakes his head sharply, dissuading that thought. "Not at all. Though you shouldn't be surprised."

"Did you ever submit?"

"Not--no," Greg corrects himself, leaving that story for another time. "I was never in a relationship with a dominant person," he elaborates. "I'm not attracted to other Alphas, my peculiarities aside."

Mycroft nods. "Nor I to Omegas. Much as it would make life easier."

Greg laughs in agreement. "Right there with you, mate. I think… I hoped it might work out, somehow, with someone. I did flirt a few times, went on a couple of dates with an Alpha who knew I wasn't an Omega and didn't mind. But it wasn't really what I was looking for. There wasn't that base attraction, and besides, the alphas I went for were all a bit rude. The one I dated, Clark was his name, I thought he might be all right and then we got close enough to sex and it turned out he was the worst of them all." Greg smiles at his own stupidity, shaking his head and sipping his wine. "He just… thought I was a failed Alpha, basically. That I would get off on humiliation and all that cruft. I really don't."

"Obvious," Mycroft agrees. "That's not your kink, anyone could observe."

Greg laughs out loud. "Any Holmes," he teases. "What about you, then? You've dated Alphas mostly?"

"I wouldn't say 'dated,'" Mycroft corrects. "I have had dalliances. But yes, exclusively with Alphas. I simply have no attraction to Omegas, whether I could top one or not."

Greg blushes a little at the crude term, and the conversation pauses as the waiter lays out their appetizers. It's not often that "topping" is even discussed in polite conversation, but then, as refined as his manners are, Greg supposes Mycroft is still a Holmes, and a certain bluntness about the facts of life is unavoidable.

"I have no interest in a long-term relationship with a dominant Alpha, however," Mycroft continues when they're again alone. Greg has to hold back a moan at the taste of a paper-thin slice of prosciutto, and considers refraining from the food as he takes in Mycroft's words. "Such encounters satisfy a need, but they're hardly complete. I haven't yet known an Alpha who can go into what's termed Omega headspace, and I in turn have no desire to unleash the full brunt of my dominance for someone who will never accept my full control or any lasting connection." He smiles to himself, almost as if he's forgotten Greg's presence. "Alphas and their pride," he murmurs, then meets Greg's eyes again and sips his wine. "Perhaps that's another way in which I'm old-fashioned."

Greg tips his head to his side, considering. "Maybe. I wouldn't say it's a pride thing, though. I think it's a common foolishness. Particularly among… certain Alphas." He coughs, then lowers his voice. "Swinging their cocks around."

At that, Mycroft laughs from deep in his belly, and Greg grins, triumphant in bringing out that genuine emotion from the reserved statesman again. "Indeed, Gregory." He eyes the plates then, and narrows his eyes. "I hope you're planning to eat."

"Oh," Greg smiles apologetically. "Yeah, sorry, it's amazing, I just… realized I couldn't concentrate on your story and the food at the same time. It's fucking incredible, actually."

"Ah," Mycroft smiles and then lifts another slice of proscuitto onto his own fork. "Don't let me distract you, then," he teases before guiding the ham to Greg's mouth. He blushes and lowers his eyes as he takes the meat between his lips, groaning this time at the taste. Or perhaps not only the taste, he can admit to himself. He's never been fed before, and it's considered a very "dynamic" act as most term the Alpha/Omega power exchange.

"Beautiful." Mycroft's eyes twinkle as he tries a bite for himself. "I must see if we can discover more ways to coax that sound from your lips."

Greg blushes and tries another one of the hors d'oeuvres, unable to come up with a witty comeback. After a few more bites, Mycroft relents and continues his observations.

"In any event, I'm not bothered at the lack of deeper connections from those men. I don't particularly  _want_  such a relationship with a dominant Alpha, even if we could technically bond. The experience is something of a… push and pull, for them, rather than a given. It's not about the natural experience of submission but rather fighting against their nature, and even if I  _can_  dominate such a man, it's not particularly arousing in the long term. I don't want to spend all my days bullying down an arrogant man. A willing partner is far more appealing."

Greg nods, licking his lips to chase the salt from a bite of caviar. "I think… I understand that. Sherlock asked me some questions, when he was figuring me out… I gather he expected that's what it was about for me. Some sort of push and pull, like… a perversion. Doing something contrary to my nature. But it really isn't, I mean… it's never felt that way. The opposite, really--it feels all twisted up, the way everyone  _else_  describes sex. I thought there must be something seriously wrong with me for a while."

Mycroft's expression is sympathetic, and he gives Greg a moment's pause, feeding him another few bites before he asks another question.

"Do you really think Alpha and Omega are our driving forces, when it comes to sexuality? Or to personality, even. I'm not convinced."

Greg shrugs. "Maybe not. It seems obvious to everyone else, I think, but there might be something to Sherlock's theories. I mean… what if there really is a completely separate part of us that determines the dominance or the submission, and that's your driving force? It's not a completely far-fetched idea. No one would've noticed if it's so rare for that to be crossed up with the Alpha or Omega biology like it is for us. Who knows how rare it really is."

Mycroft nods. "Sherlock's not the first to come up with those theories. I've suspected something similar for quite some time, though you are my first independent verification that it could be true." He smiles, a little sadly, sipping his wine. "I knew, scientifically, that I was unlikely to be the  _only_  one, but…"

"I know," Greg responds quickly, impulsively taking his hand on top of the table. "Believe me, I know."

There's something warm in Mycroft's eyes, and it's only with reluctance that Greg tears his own away as the waiter returns. Mycroft orders two entrees, though Greg doesn't really pay attention to what they are, trusting Mycroft to have good taste given the hors d'oeuvres. When the waiter leaves, he only reluctantly withdraws his hand to grasp his wine glass.

"I gather you had it much harder, in a way," Mycroft surmises. "When your second puberty occurred, you must have been affected by all the rot about 'true Alphas' that teenagers toss about, all the childish posturing. Fortunately I was able to silence any schoolyard bullies."

Greg laughs. "I bet you were. But it wasn't that bad, honestly. I was quiet. I think it was harder at the police academy. I haven't always felt like much of an Alpha."

"And that's just it. The very notion of a 'true Alpha,' of needing to prove yourself as an Alpha through dominance, is a fallacy if we're correct. If dominance, rather than status as an Alpha, is the driving force to behavior, then you're no less of an Alpha for being submissive. It's like saying that a pear isn't a very good pear because it's insufficiently carrot-like."

Greg laughs. "You Holmeses. You do love logic-ing everything out. But yes, that makes sense."

"Indeed." Mycroft sips at his wine, gaze steady on Greg's in a way that makes him feel warm straight through. "Perhaps the only thing that  _is_  important about Alphas and Omegas is our bodies, or our pheromones. The fact that we're naturally attracted to our opposite. In which case, there  _is_  no inherently dominant sexual act. The act becomes dominant or submissive by virtue of the person doing it, and there is nothing about a penis, per se, if our theory is correct, that requires it to be used in a dominant way. Fucking is not necessarily topping." Greg fists a hand in the napkin on his lap and nods, not trusting himself to speak. There's no reason such crude words should sound particularly hot when spoken in RP, but there's something about Mycroft's crisp manner and the dirtier things at which the conversation hints that makes Greg's mouth dry.

"Furthermore," Mycroft continues, making no sign that he notices Greg's distress as he dramatically reveals his theory, almost as much a diva as his brother if with less flourish, "there is nothing at all confused about either you or your sexuality, as Sherlock might have assumed. Nothing perverted about any fantasies you may have." His voice drops low all of a sudden, losing its unaffected mask, and Greg swallows hard as Mycroft leans in. "It's perfectly natural, for example, that you, as an Alpha, might desire to worship an Omega body."

"Oh God," Greg whispers, trying to suck in all the air in the room in at once as Mycroft gives him a very predatory smile. Then Mycroft's fingers lift to his mouth and he obediently opens for what, he belatedly realizes, is a bit of marinated pear. He'd laugh were he not so turned on.

"Quite right," Mycroft beams, leaning back in his chair, and Greg shifts a little. "Indeed, we ought not to worry about their silly dominant cocks at all," he teases, startling a laugh out of Greg. Mycroft pours some more wine into their glasses and then licks his lips. "I have a confession to make, if you'll take it."

"Certainly," Greg grins. "Though I'm no priest."

"Mmm. It's not that kind of a confession." Mycroft calmly sips his wine. "I only think that it's quite obvious, from my point of view, what the purpose of an Alpha's cock is," he declares, and Greg tenses up as Mycroft's eyes dart down to the table, as if he could see what's going on in Greg's lap. "And it certainly isn't domination."

_Oh_ , Greg thinks as he takes a large fortifying gulp from his own glass, trying so hard not to picture what Mycroft might like to do with his _, heaven help us all_.

\----

"I don't envy you," Mycroft muses as they sit in another restaurant, this one a trendy take on Westernized Asian cuisine, discussing Greg's career path and his time at the Met thus far. "I have it much easier, I think, in passing for an Alpha."

Greg cocks his head to the side, surprised at that. "Really? Don't you worry that someone might scent you or something?"

Mycroft shrugs and lifts a spring roll to Greg's lips. He's already guessed that Mycroft knew about this restaurant's propensity to finger food when he picked the place. "People perceive what they want to. I use masking products to avoid being too obvious, but even if someone does scent it, they'll assume they're smelling someone else in the room or someone who recently left. Not to mention the particular advantage I have in terms of behavior. I'm far more dominant than those  _Alpha_  doms," Mycroft purrs dismissively, as if that adjective-noun pair is derisive rather than redundant. Greg gives up on his plan to try not to be sexually affected by this second date and shifts a little as he licks plum sauce from his lips.

"Frankly, it makes sense," Mycroft adds. "That I would be tuned to a different frequency, as it were. To your frequency."

Greg swallows. "How so?"

"Well, whether or not we're unique, we are certainly rare. It makes sense, from an evolutionary perspective, that I would be sufficiently dominant to top another dominant person, since the odds are that I would never meet an Alpha who isn't dominant. And the same would follow for you--we would expect, given the scarcity of your sexual type, that you would be unusually sensitive to dominance. That in order to submit to an Omega, potentially, you would go down quite easily and submit beautifully."

Greg wants to object that "submit beautifully" is subjective and doesn't have much to do with Mycroft's theory at all, but Mycroft is looking at him like he's on the dessert menu and he really can't be arsed to open his mouth in complaint. "Yes," he says instead, his voice low, and Mycroft's lips curve into a slow smile.

"I'm rarely wrong." Mycroft twists some peanut noodles onto his chopsticks and Greg tries to slurp them off gracefully. "The benefit, of course, for us, is that however rare such a match might be, given the biological tendency to overcompensate, one might expect quite an  _electric_  dynamic once the match is made."

Greg congratulates himself for not whimpering. Instead, he takes a healthy sip of beer. "That... would follow," he agrees, then drops his eyes to the table with a self-deprecating grin. "Am I blushing?"

Mycroft responds with a warm laugh, reaching to brush Greg's cheek with his fingers. "A bit. It looks good on you."

"Thank God for small miracles?" Greg smiles, leaning into the touch just a bit. He supposes there's no need to pretend, anyway. Not when being courted by a Holmes.

\----

The second date ends with a kiss. Greg doesn't expect it, old-fashioned courting and all, and he's about to turn away from Mycroft's car at the valet stand, to head to his own in the car park, when Mycroft grabs him by the wrist. They're just outside of the pool of light cast by the restaurant's outdoor lampposts, but it's still thrilling to be here in public with someone who looks for all intents and purposes like an Alpha, whose hand is going to the back of Greg's neck in a possessive, claiming gesture. He stops thinking about it when Mycroft takes his mouth, the kiss light but insistent, punctuated by a tug at his lower lip. He moans under his breath in spite of himself and Mycroft teases with his teeth before he pulls away.

"Until next time, Gregory." The smug bastard looks entirely too sure of himself as he slides into the waiting car, and Greg just stands there for a moment, wrist hanging in the air where Mycroft's hand had put it. Then he grins, narrowly avoids a triumphant fist pump, and heads off into the night. He is on  _fire_.

\-----

"I am curious," Mycroft murmurs, swirling wine in his glass. The food this time is authentic Spanish tapas, more hand-feeding, and more of Greg trying to at least pretend he's not falling as hard as he obviously is. "When you scent an Omega, what is your instinct? What is the first thing you think to do, before your conscious mind takes over?"

Greg blushes, but the answer comes quickly. "Drop to my knees." He forces himself to meet Mycroft's gaze.

"Mmm." Mycroft's smile is slow and sharklike. "I like that." He reaches out, squeezes Greg's jaw gently with one hand so that his mouth automatically drops open, and then places an olive on his tongue. "Sherlock would find the data interesting for his research, I'm sure. More proof that sex only tells us that we want a person... this role, as we might term it, tells us what we want to do with them."

Greg finishes chewing the olive and gulps. "Can we not talk about your brother right now?"

Mycroft laughs. "Very well then, Gregory. You'll forgive a more personal question."

Not a question, but Greg nods anyway. Mycroft feeds him a date, stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon, as he asks.

"What do you fantasize about? You must have ideas beyond the sexual norm; I certainly do."

Greg doesn't even bother to hide his little groan at the idea of what  _Mycroft's_  fantasies might be, licking the salt from the other man's fingertips to give himself time to answer. "I... Christ, Mycroft." He laughs a little and sips his wine. "All right. I suppose... I think about simple things, really. I've known for a long time that what turns me on isn't really  _right_ , you know? I don't want to let myself go too far, torturing myself isn't my kink." A little smile, meeting Mycroft's eyes. "It was all rather out of reach, until quite recently."

"Quite," Mycroft matches his smile, neatly eating a date of his own.

"I think about kneeling. Often," Greg admits, eyes dropping to the tablecloth. "Kissing someone's shoes. Touching an Omega, and... tasting" --his cheeks must be bright as ripe tomatoes, now, but he presses on-- "as a service. Sometimes I would pretend, with my wife, that she had ordered me to do it, that it was just one of a list of mandatory tasks I had to do. I... think a lot about serving someone." His fingers twitch a bit, wishing for a cigarette, and Mycroft's hand joins his on the table, thumb rubbing the inside of his wrist at the pulse. The simple gesture calms him more than he wants to admit.

"Prepare yourself for this one, Gregory," Mycroft warns when the waiter serves them a plate of paper-thin slices of Iberico ham. "Quite frankly put, it  _is_  sex."

Greg raises his eyebrows and then groans out loud when Mycroft delicately folds and feeds him a slice. Lightly seasoned with sea salt and olive oil, it's certainly like no ham he's ever tasted. "Mycroft, this is... wow. You're not kidding."

Mycroft laughs, clearly delighted. "I look forward to introducing you to more of the finer pleasures life offers," he declares, taking a slice of ham for himself and then offering Greg another taste. "Despite my brother's jesting about cake, I do believe my palate is rather refined. Food is something of a special interest."

"Well I'm sure as hell not complaining," Greg grins, almost feeling that he should say a mourner's prayer when the ham is gone. He takes a sip of sherry and then Mycroft feeds him a bite of fried goat cheese dipped in honey--too messy to be strictly considered finger food, but Greg enjoys the opportunity to be a bit bold, licking the honey from Mycroft's fingers and pushing his tongue suggestively between them with a naughty grin.

Mycroft coughs. "Do you enjoy pornography?" he asks, a propos of nothing.

Greg makes a face as he pulls back. "Not really. I've tried, I know it's how most Alphas get off, but... porn Omegas really weird me out. It's just... not right."

"Because Omegas in your mind are supposed to top?"

Greg bites his lip and nods. "Yeah. I know it's been beaten out of me over a lifetime, but... that still feels natural. I see... well, a pussy," he finally says, not meeting his very posh companion's eyes, "and it makes me think of fucking, of  _being_  fucked, of being forced into something I really really  _want_..."

"What kind of fucking?" Mycroft asks, sharply, leaning in across the table as his thumb returns to Greg's wrist and presses hard enough against Greg's pulse to make his eyes shoot back up to Mycroft's. "How do you touch yourself?" His tone is too soft to carry further than Greg's ears, but the question burns in his mind.

"I... I don't know, I sort of..." Greg shifts his hand to press his four fingers against Mycroft's forearm and massages, slowly. "I think about getting you--getting an Omega," he corrects quickly, "off with my cock. I used to like to rub it against her clit a bit, before she got frustrated and made me fuck her. Even then, I think about the whole thing in reverse, I fantasize about someone fucking my cock with his pussy."

"You think about getting  _me_  off," Mycroft echoes, his eyes harsh and probably omniscient, for all Greg knows. "You say  _his_  pussy because these days, you think about  _me_  when you touch yourself. Don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Greg practically squeaks.

"Good boy."

Greg exhales, and it feels like a lifetime of tension flooding out of him. Mycroft's hand shifts to fondly cup his cheek, though his next words are no less filthy. "I will expect you to serve me with your cock inside my body," he murmurs. "But  _I_  will fuck you that way, even on my back. Make no mistake."

"God, yes. Can we get out of here?" Greg mutters the question, eyes hopeful.

Mycroft laughs. "You're very presumptuous, pet." Greg's face falls, embarrassed, but Mycroft presses fingers into his jaw, hard enough to hurt, derailing his self-deprecating thoughts. "Soon."

"Oh," Greg breathes, grinning in relief. Mycroft laughs and feeds him another bite.

"You doubt yourself too much, Gregory."

Greg shrugs. "I'm realistic. With all you said about being some sort of super-dom, because of what you are... I know I'm not much of an Alpha. I don't want to assume that I'm the kind of Alpha you want, just because our roles, as you put it, are compatible."

"It isn't just because of that, Gregory. But it is true. You are exactly the kind of Alpha I want. No silly bravado, but an appropriate confidence for your position. A genuine, honest person. And yes, we align perfectly. I can't deny that. I've known Alphas who pretended at that alignment, but I'm too difficult to fool. They got off on the perversion of having their nature subverted, and that isn't a kink I care for. I want to feel that my dominance is fully accepted and embraced, that it is natural to my partner. You've already shown that you can give me that."

Greg smiles. "Now I just have to hope that I really  _am_  the only one like me."

"Rubbish. Clearly you haven't been paying any attention."

"Sorry?"

"Why did I insist on courting you, Gregory? Remind me."

Greg takes another sip of wine, thinking back to their first conversation. "You wanted to, erm... decide whether to grant me access. To your body." And there's that blush back again.

"Indeed," Mycroft laughs lightly. "But not only that. I wanted to know you. I wanted to evaluate you independently of your submissive role. Take comfort in the fact that I am a very strict judge, and I have not found you wanting."

Greg licks his lips. "Oh. That's good then. Um... if it matters, I bloody well want you too."

Mycroft's smile is teasing now. "I've noticed. There is, however, one more matter I need to inquire into--not as a part of my evaluation, but because it's something significant that I need to know before I enter into a relationship with you. I  _am_  looking for something serious, Gregory. Not a night or even a week of dalliances. I'm incredibly possessive, when I have a need to be. 

"That's good," Greg smiles. "I'm pushing fifty, really, Mycroft. I'm not afraid of serious. So what else do you need to know?"

"Your marriage."

Greg's face darkens. "Yeah. What about it?"

"I need to know how it ended. I know that the event was traumatic for you, and I would like to understand the details so that I can avoid any unintentional triggers."

"Christ. Okay." Greg scrubs a hand over his face. "It's not the prettiest story."

"Think of my profession, Gregory. I don't deal in pretty. Take your time."

Greg nods, lets Mycroft feed him a bit more, and then decides where to start. "Sherlock's deductions were spot on, before, but I don't know how much he told you. She needed gentle for a long time. Her past was rough, and I had worked long enough in DV to be sensitive to that. It helped me, too, to have someone who didn't need the kind of dominance that's typical of an Alpha partner. I didn't get violent when she went into heat, I didn't freak her out with possessiveness. I don't know that the sex was ever perfect for either of us, but I was in love with her. We were compatible people, liked the same things, all that."

Mycroft nods. "A relationship isn't entirely about dynamic."

"No. And especially before I got promoted to sergeant, there was time to be together and be happy with that. I suppose, though... after a while it wasn't enough for her. I had never expected much more, and I loved her, so I was happy enough, but she got tired of all the gentle. After kids, I think her libido changed. Is that common, do you know? Women getting a sex drive in their forties after the kids?"

Mycroft blanches a little. "Honestly, Gregory, I have  _no_ idea. I've never been particularly attracted to women."

Greg laughs. "Right, well..." He takes another bite, a sip of wine. "She did, get that drive, I mean. Maybe she felt safe, too, I mean, I'd like to believe I did something good for her by helping her to heal. But eventually I think she missed it. The rough and tumble, the dynamic stuff. Someone to really top her." He sighs, brushing a hand through his hair.

"She met someone else."

"Did she ever. She seemed happy, and I suppose for a little while I honestly didn't mind. I was working all around the clock, and she wasn't bitchy when I got home, she seemed more content. I figured we could maybe work it out, have an arrangement. But her boyfriend--Paul, is his name--he had this idea. They didn't tell me about it directly, I only found out afterward, but he had this fantasy, I assume he thought I did too, based on what she told him about me." Greg looks at the tablecloth again, a slight tremor in his hands as he recalls the events that ended his marriage.

"Do you know anything about cuckolding, then? The idea of it?"

He looks up and Mycroft nods, expression unreadable. "I do."

"Right, so that was what he wanted. He came home with her one night, and he...  _made_  me stay. I mean, he did... the whole dominant thing... he gave orders, serious orders, I guess I knew after that all the stuff Sherlock's been talking about, but I didn't put it into scientific terms. Shit, I was terrified. He's not a small man, your basic stereotypical Alpha, and he made me kneel... in the sitting room, thank God, not with them, but he made me kneel and stay in the house while he... fucked her in the bedroom." Greg exhales, his entire frame tense. "He told me that I liked it. He insisted... that I liked it, that it was my dirty secret, and I suppose everything got all mixed up in my head, it took a couple of days, but then I left."

"Gregory," Mycroft murmurs gently. "Can you look up at me?"

"I... Christ, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be such a..." He doesn't look up, clenching his hands together.

"Shhh. Your reaction is perfectly natural, Gregory. I'm going to ask you a question and there's no right or wrong answer. Are you able to kneel for me here?"

Greg gulps hard, still staring at his plate. He wants to, he really  _wishes_  the answer were yes, but it's public and far too big a step for him right now. He shakes his head.

"Good. That's good, an honest answer," Mycroft murmurs, stroking his hands gently over Greg's. Greg vaguely registers him putting some banknotes on the table and then Mycroft's helping him out of his chair. "You're having a bit of a panic, but I'm going to get you sorted now and we're going to be alone."

_Alone_. That sounds fantastic, and Greg numbly lets Mycroft lead him outside and to the back of his dark car. He has the driver take them somewhere, not far away, and then they're parked in the shadows with the privacy screen up.

"Sorry," he mutters again. "I was a bit of a tit, there."

"Not at all. I shouldn't have asked you to discuss something so stressful in public. That was an oversight on my part, and I apologize."

Greg shakes his head. "That was fine, really, I should've been able to handle it like an Alpha..."

"Stop." Mycroft doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is crisp, dominant, and Greg finally lifts his eye's to Mycroft's, his body expectant. "None of that." It shouldn't be that simple, but in a way it is, that tone draining many of his anxieties away. "You're safe, now, pet. Kneel for me."

Greg would deny it vehemently later, but he whimpers just a bit at the order and slips gratefully to his knees on the plush carpeted floor of the car, Mycroft's hands tenderly guiding Greg's head to his thigh. "That's it," Mycroft purrs, fingernails scraping up the back of Greg's neck and through his hair in a decadent motion that feels far better than it has any right to. "Such a good boy for me. I want you to relax now, just let yourself sink a little. We have all the time you need to recover, pet, right here where it's safe."

Lulled by Mycroft's words and the comforting touch, but perhaps more so by how  _right_ he feels here on his knees for this man, Greg's panic starts to ease, his heartrate slowing and his breathing evening out. After a moment, one of Mycroft's hands lowers to let Greg scent his wrist, and he inhales the faint Omega scent eagerly. He recognizes the fog of a light headspace, though it's not something he's ever experienced himself. Perhaps Mycroft was right about him being more sensitive to it, once it's offered. The crash of adrenaline leaving his body leaves him feeling a bit drained, but the soothing hands and words of praise make it easier, and eventually he's calm enough for Mycroft to order the driver to continue on to his home.

"Does this mean you'll have me?" Greg asks with a little childish grin as Mycroft pulls him up into the seat to buckle in.

"Clearly you weren't paying attention in the restaurant, Gregory," Mycroft rebukes lightly. "I had already made my decision. You  _are_  mine, for as long as you consent to be so."

"Oh," Greg sighs happily, letting his head be pulled onto Mycroft's shoulder. "Consenting eagerly, Sir."

Mycroft laughs and Greg lets himself drift as the night sky flashes by through the window.

 


	2. higher than soul can hope or mind can hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Houston, we have sex! Next chapter I suspect we may even have heat.
> 
> Mycroft and Greg finally do the deed, and then get to know each other a bit more. Sherlock is Sherlock. Let's not be surprised.

Mycroft's home isn't quite the showpiece Greg expected, though it's certainly expensive. The townhouse is three stories, though fairly narrow, and Mycroft gives a rather perfunctory tour. Downstairs sitting room, dining room, kitchen and powder room, all quite tidy and appropriate for entertaining, then the first floor, which looks much more lived in with an office, den, and exercise room.

"You know, I'd pictured something detached in the country," Greg admits. "But I suppose that would be quite the commute."

"Indeed. Though, if you were concerned, the house is fully soundproofed," Mycroft notes offhandedly with a predatory smile. Greg bites his lip.

"Oh. Well I wasn't, but now that you mention it..."

"Guest rooms and another bath upstairs, playroom in the basement, which is generally where I... entertain," Mycroft explains, the emphasis on his final word giving Greg no doubt what's meant by it. "You'll see that in due time, but for tonight, I believe..." He pushes a door open and Greg steps inside, taking in the details of Mycroft's bedroom. It's masculine, but neither dark nor dull, with white walls and a mirrored floor to ceiling armoire opposite the bed opening up the room. The linens are red, black, and grey to compliment a shadowy, suggestive silhouette oil painting over the bed done in the same scheme, and a wide window is hung with dark red blackout curtains. The master bath adjacent features a sinful Jacuzzi tub and a large shower stall, which doesn't quite surprise Greg given what he's seen of Mycroft's decadence so far. Best of all, the snow-white bedroom carpet is deep and plush enough to kneel on comfortably. Acting on instinct, Greg does so, facing Mycroft.

"Mmm." Mycroft cards a hand through his hair. "You tempt me, boy, immensely, but ground rules first." He fists a hand in Greg's jacket collar and steers him by that to a high-backed black chair with red padding. Greg's not accustomed to crawling, but it feels good mentally, at least, to follow Mycroft and then kneel obediently by his chair. "I'm not given to dramatic display or puffery in the bedroom. I know my own talents, and you are mine. I don't need to prove that. I'd like you to decide what you want to call me. What feels right?"

The word that slips out is a little scary, but also terribly honest. It's the word Greg's used in his own head, in his fantasies of rough sex and domestic bliss. "Master," he murmurs, looking up hopefully at Mycroft.

"God," Mycroft whispers in reply, and seems to forget his train of thought as he bends abruptly and puts his mouth to Greg's with a hand at the back of his neck. It's both like their first kiss and not, Mycroft's hand digging into muscle with a much firmer grip, tongue briefly delving into Greg's mouth. He whimpers a little and tries to shift up on his knees, but Mycroft prevents him.

"That will do quite nicely, pet," Mycroft says as he sits up straight again, hand releasing but remaining in place. "You will use that in private from now on, and in any text or telephone communications where you are not being observed. In public, you will call me Mister Holmes, rather than my more familiar given name, and thus the 'Master' will be implied between us. You will not wear a typical bonded Omega collar, in private or public, as I don't want you getting accustomed to a play collar and then missing it in public. Instead, this  _is_  your collar, and you will treat it as such."

Mycroft removes a slim box from his jacket pocket, and Greg's breath catches as Mycroft opens it to reveal a thin chain with a coin-shaped charm, ornately decorated with Mycroft's initials on the back. "The Holmes family seal," Mycroft explains. "Perhaps more direct than you would like, but if anyone sees this and guesses its significance, my identity will not be your greatest concern. I prefer it to anonymity."

Greg smiles. "So do I. It's beautiful. And no one will notice a necklace under my shirt."

"Platinum. If you don't know how to polish jewelry, learn." Greg nods and with that, Mycroft lifts the chain and clasps it at the back of Greg's neck, letting the charm fall. "Mine."

"Yours, Master."

Mycroft's lips curl into a smile. "I enjoy hearing that. Now, I would like to start learning what you like." His nails bite into Greg's neck, hand nudging under Greg's collar, and Greg sighs softly.

"That's a good start, Master."

"Mmm. So I see. Rule number one, I'm only interested in genuine reactions. I crave them, in fact. No holding back unless you've specifically been ordered to do so for a scene. No telling me what you think I want to hear. Given everything you know about Sherlock's abilities with respect to deduction, you should keep in mind that I taught him everything he knows. Lying to me is pointless."

Greg nods. "Understood, Master."

"Good. Stand now, and remove your clothing. Take your time."

Greg blushes a bit as he stands and slips out of his jacket under Mycroft's all-seeing gaze. He drapes it on the bed and then unbuttons his shirt, top down, the new charm dropping against his chest.

"Eyes on me, Gregory." Greg does as he's told, the intense stare tough to hold. "Embarrassed?" Mycroft asks as Greg removes the shirt and folds it.

"A little, Master," Greg agrees. "Not used to being looked at."

"Get used to it," Mycroft replies as Greg removes his belt and unzips his trousers. "It's so rare to have the opportunity to objectify a willing Alpha body for my deviant purposes," he muses, tone even, fingers steepling much as his brother often does. "And everything you've said about yourself indicates that you won't object."

"I want to serve, Master," Greg mumbles, crouching to remove his socks and shoes before he drops trou. Plain white briefs come off last, then he waits expectantly as Mycroft rises unhurriedly from the chair.

"I know you do. I've noticed, and plan to exploit that desire. Hands behind your back," he orders casually, smirking when Greg's hands jerk back to clasp each other, pushing his chest out under Mycroft's gaze. He knows he's no Alpha model, but perhaps Mycroft's preferences don't tend towards the overly bulky. He's in reasonable shape, at least, and slightly tan from a recent holiday.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft purrs, running a hand down Greg's chest as he walks a slow circle and then dropping it to crudely lift Greg's cock as he stands at Greg's back, nipping Greg's earlobe and weighing it in his palm. "This will suit my purposes _quite_ nicely." Greg licks his suddenly dry lips. "It's a shame, boy, that you've been so good, wanting so much to be used, and none of these idiots knew how to use you properly." He smiles as he runs his hand appropriatively over Greg's chest, and Greg just swallows. The unspoken implication is that, by contrast, Mycroft knows very well. "I'm going to take a shower. I want you to be able to scent me fully tonight, without the usual products. While I'm in the bathroom, put your clothes on an empty shelf in the armoire. You may brush your teeth in the downstairs powder room and bring a glass of water for each of us upstairs, then kneel by the foot of the bed with your forehead touching the carpet. While you wait, I want you to slow your breathing and meditate on why you're here. Think about what this means," Mycroft adds, tugging gently on the necklace. "Any questions?"

"Do you want me facing the bed or away, Master?" 

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, but there is a little inhale that tells Greg he's affected by the honorific. "Towards. Go on, then." Mycroft tugs him in with the chain, kissing him once more before he lets go, and Greg heads for the stairs with his blood burning slightly from the adrenaline.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , his brain helpfully supplies as he brushes his teeth. Part of him wants to jump up and down and flail his hands in the air like a twelve-year-old Omega, while a smaller part is terrified about what's next. Not of Mycroft--never of Mycroft, whose scent is just so bloody  _right_ that Greg doubts he could ever fear him. But he's afraid of his own abilities, what he can even offer when in headspace for his very first scene, bottoming to someone who's definitely done this before. He does his best to clamp down on those thoughts, bringing the water upstairs and then kneeling in the prescribed position on the thick carpet. 

Greg's breathing slows after a minute, the soft rumble of the shower helping to lure him into something more like a meditative state. Mycroft's room, unlike his office, smells faintly of Omega, and the chest-forward position makes Greg's new charm hang, the weight on the back of his neck comforting.  _Think about what it means._  That, far from being scary, is actually incredibly soothing, reminding him that Mycroft essentially bought him a collar on the basis of their dates together, that Mycroft refused to jump into bed immediately and thus  _wants_  him. He's passed the test, and now he has an Omega--not just any Omega, but the indelible and mysterious Mycroft Holmes--to call Master. He lets that word, "Master," tumble through his head as the water shuts off and thus it comes easily to his lips when a soft, slightly damp hand touches the back of his neck. 

"Gregory," Mycroft acknowledges, a smile in his tone. His scent is much stronger now, easier to detect than an Omega in the street and even easier than Greg would expect based on his nudity, which means--

_Aroused_ Omega, Greg's mind supplies, and he whimpers just a bit. 

"God, I could make you  _beg_ ," Mycroft rumbles, his voice almost as deep as his brother's as he yanks Greg to kneel up by the hair.

"Please," Greg croaks out, his own voice a rather embarrassing squeak as Mycroft stands and lets him press his cheek against bare, damp thigh. "Please, Master, let me beg for you." Here, so close to Mycroft's genitals, the Omega scent is strong, and Greg has to resist the urge to rub up against his leg like a kitten.

"What would you beg me for, my delicious Alpha?" Mycroft asks, his voice back to sultry precision and dripping with the combination of smug control and wicked desire. 

"Your cunt," Greg whispers, his cheeks flooding with blood. "Let me eat you, Master, please."

"No," Mycroft replies, easily, smacking his cheek. It smarts and Greg, though not a masochist in the classic sense, wants more. "You haven't earned that yet." He holds Greg a forearm's length away, hand tight in his hair, as Greg stares helplessly up at him. "I'll have things to teach you later. Preferences, protocol. I'm terribly particular, perhaps fetishistic about organization. You will learn my compulsions and perform in a way that pleases me. I will be harsh when you fail." 

Greg swallows hard. He doesn't think that needs a response, not beyond the wideness of his eyes and his painfully rigid cock. His physiology wants to  _fuck something_ , while his mind wants to throw himself down at Mycroft's feet. Mycroft smirks, probably reading everything.

"Not tonight, though. Get up. Kneel near the foot of the bed, in the centre. Face the headboard." As Greg scrambles to obey, Mycroft comes around at a more leisurely pace, arranging himself with a few pillows propped behind his back. "Oh, Gregory," he murmurs, a little smile quirking his lips. "What shall I do with you?" 

"Whatever would bring you pleasure, Master."

"Mm. Indeed. I think we'll see how well your ordinary brain handles multitasking tonight. Do you know anything about foot massage?"

"Not-" he clears his throat, "-not beyond just rubbing my wife's feet for a lark, no Master."

"You'll have two simultaneous lessons tonight, then. Come forward. I want you to be able to hold my heel on your shoulder comfortably, while sitting on your heels." 

Greg scoots into position, closer to Mycroft, between his casually-splayed legs. Most Omegas would look vulnerable in such a classic exposed position, but Mycroft just makes Greg nervous. He looks more powerful than ever, lifting his foot up onto Greg's shoulder and then-- _oh fuck_ , Greg's mind supplies before it short-circuits--resting his palm over his vulva. 

"Pay close attention," Mycroft warns, arching an eyebrow. "There  _will_ be a pop quiz."

Greg's mouth is instantly bone-dry, and Mycroft has to remind him to start on the foot massage. He tries not to hyper-focus on how Mycroft's fingertips begin to masturbate by gently teasing the clitoris and stroking the labia open, but he's only a man. His technique garners quick criticism.

"You're drooling, Gregory. Be a good pet. Worship the skin I'm letting you touch. But don't you dare look away."

Greg whimpers and makes a little more effort, digging his thumbs into the sole of Mycroft's foot just above the heel and pushing them towards the toes in a long, deep sweeping motion. A groan encourages him, and he continues that motion, but now Mycroft's fingers are glistening slightly, and oh fuck did he miss anything?

Mycroft maintains a smug little smile, obviously enjoying Greg's difficulties while caught in the pheromone-laden fog of headspace. He offers sharp instructions at intervals, demanding variations in focus and pressure, eventually allowing Greg the privilege of kissing his instep. Greg has never really eroticized feet before, but he's finding the psychological appeal of being placed at Mycroft's feet like this, knees spread, cock protruding, given the opportunity to show how good his hands and mouth are in hopes of more intimate future orders. And the foot itself is clean, long and lovely, Mycroft's toes not quite as ridiculous as Sherlock's but not unattractive. As he massages each one, he thinks of how Mycroft walks so confidently into a room, of how he might equally confidently put a shoe on Greg's back or even kick him, carefully, to show his absolute authority. Submissives spend a lot of time at their partners' feet, at least Omegas do, and Greg appreciates the symbolism.

"Bite," Mycroft orders, a slight hitch to his tone as fingers slowly massage his clit with clear pressure. "Set your teeth into the muscle, boy, just there." Gregory does it, and is rewarded by a long moan, then suddenly when he lifts his mouth from the spot, the firm thump of that same foot pushing directly into his chest, upsetting his stability for a moment before he uses core muscles to right himself. Mycroft's stare is penetrating, his other foot coming to Greg's shoulder for attention as the first stays in place, steady pressure against Greg's chest triggering instinctual feelings of safety and grounding. Mycroft's fucking himself with two fingers now as Greg watches, but that doesn't stop him from directing the massage, giving continuous feedback even as he uses the heel on Greg's shoulder for leverage to thrust his hips up and grind clit into palm. Greg has to very sternly remind himself to breathe. He can't see much of Mycroft's genitalia anymore, but he can see red tissues stretched around slick knuckles, neatly trimmed hair, the clean pink pucker of Mycroft's arsehole.

He's almost surprised he doesn't get kicked in the face when Mycroft comes--he doesn't think he'd personally have that much control. The foot on his chest does push harder, though, Mycroft's pelvis jerking sharply, and his eyes skewer Greg in place as he snarls and growls and digs his teeth into his bottom lip, mouth opening and closing and chin jutting out a bit. Greg doesn't imagine anyone looks exactly photogenic when they come, and Mycroft looks  _angry_ , but it makes Greg want to bottle every ounce of wild promise in that uncontrolled expression so that he can drink it all greedily down. 

"I could ruin you," Mycroft gasps, as he's coming down, and Greg doesn't answer but just ducks his head submissively. Mycroft eventually pushes up to his own knees and grabs by the jaw and one forearm and kisses him until he's jerking and almost-almost-almost coming without being touched, feeling warm-damp fingers digging in just below his elbow. He slaps Greg away, then, and pins him to the bed with the efficiency of someone who really, probably, has had spy training, before covering him with his body and lying there stretched limb-to-limb until Greg's only possible breaths are shallow and he can't feel the delineation of their separate skin.

"Improbable boy," Mycroft whispers, and the fond-hopeful-disbelieving way he says it makes Greg want to cling to the title with all he's worth.

\------

Awareness filters in slowly as Greg wakes. First, it's just warmth and weight, and a slight pressure in his bladder. Then the light, reassuring scent of Omega. He turns his head a bit to snuggle into Mycroft, still half on top of him in sleep, and feels the shift of the thin chain around his neck. 

_Christ_ , he thinks, opening his eyes with a silly grin.  _It's real._  And made more real when he lifts his head in the early-morning light, catching their image in the wall-to-wall mirrors opposite the bed. At some point in the night, Mycroft must have tugged the duvet over his own body, but Greg is completely naked but for his necklace, Mycroft's limbs claimimg much of his body and pinning him in place. The other man's face is pressed into Greg's neck and he's snoring softly. Greg has to relish the picture for just a moment, before he nudges Mycroft.

"Master? Master, can you budge over a bit? I need a piss."

The snoring stops, replaced by a little groan as Mycroft shifts just enough to let Greg move. "I could get used to hearing that word from your lips first thing," he mumbles, squeezing Greg's hip blindly and then letting him leave the bed. Greg can't help but grin, seeing Mycroft so unguarded. If he'd been asked, before this, he would have assumed that Mycroft woke instantly, military-sharp, ready to forge right into whatever crisis awaited. The fact that he doesn't is rather endearing, if less-than-ideal for any actual threat. 

The Master bathroom, Greg learns, is unreasonably posh. He's not surprised to find towels neatly folded on a bar, nothing out of place to indicate Mycroft's shower the night before. His own habits lead to clothes strewn on the bathmat most nights, but he's sure Mycroft will break him of that. Once he's used the toilet and quickly washed his face, he debates breakfast. Would it be better to wake him back up while the tea's still hot, if he wants to sleep, or risk not having tea ready if he wants to wake up? Despite his desire to serve, Greg knows fuck-all about the practicalities. Eventually, he decides to make a single cup of tea, brushing his teeth in the powder room while the kettle brews, which he can always drink himself if it goes cold while Mycroft sleeps. 

As it happens, Mycroft shifts in bed when Greg returns and opens his eyes, albeit seemingly reluctantly. He takes the hot mug of Earl Grey and then looks Greg up and down, as if he's just comprehended that Greg is in fact there is his bedroom. "Kneel," he says, and Greg's on the carpet before his mind processes the command consciously. Mycroft's smile is feral. 

"Good instincts," he comments absently, shifting closer to the edge of the bed and petting at Greg's hair as he sips his tea. "Can you cook?"

"Quite basic stuff, Master."

"We'll have someone in to train you, then. Lessons on the weekends." 

Greg blushes, imagining a stranger in this house, treating him as an Omega learning to serve oddly late in life. He squirms just a little, but Mycroft notices.

"Discreet, of course. I have people of all kinds who know how to keep quiet, Gregory, you needn't worry about this getting back to the Yard." 

"Am I to be taught to sauté by James Bond, then?" Greg teases before he remembers himself and lowers his eyes. "Master."

"We couldn't possibly spare Bond, pet," Mycroft volleys, then nudges under Greg's chin until he lifts his head. "You can tease, Gregory. You can joke. I may be stern, but I don't require perfect military-style address, and I do want an intelligent human being for a partner. Consider your genuine companionship the ultimate service," he murmurs, and Greg thinks he catches something soft and even vulnerable in his tone. He wonders how long Mycroft has been longing for companionship, and ducks his head just enough to kiss the pulse point in Mycroft's wrist.

"It would be my pleasure to serve you, Master." His voice is low and serious, but after his lips have rested there a moment, his eyes meeting Mycroft's, his eyes sparkle and he sets his teeth gently to the muscle below Mycroft's thumb, playfully nipping his palm. Mycroft laughs then and gives his cheek a pinch. Greg only beams back at him, delighting in being on his knees.

\------

 "Knew it, sir," PC Donovan says with a shit-eating grin when Greg emerges from the Iift on their floor looking a bit dazed. "Told you."

"Not all of it, you didn't," Greg counters, snapping out of his awe just to take the young Alpha down a peg. "It's not just DI. DI McDonough in Homicide asked for Kelly's post, so they're moving  _me_  to Homicide. You too, Sally. I'll be heading up an MIT."

"Fuck  _me_." Sally grins. "The Freak's gonna have a field day."

"No kidding," he agrees. "Kid loves a good murder." Might even stay clean, Greg thinks privately, with this as incentive. As he goes to his desk, he's almost thankful the promotion process took so long. He was up for this spot before he even met Mycroft Holmes in person, exams two years back, and otherwise he'd suspect foul play. But no, he got this one on his own, and he can't wait to tell his Omega. 

_Master, can you be home for tea tonight? I have something to celebrate._

_A late dinner, yes. You achieved the promotion, I assume? Congratulations. -MH_

_Master, respectfully, you ruin all my fun. But thank you._

_Of course I do, boy. It's my job. Don't come home. Meet me at Alain Ducasse at 10. The Table Lumière is available no earlier, and it's worth it. I'll send a car. -MH_

_Christ. Don't worry about the car, Master, I'll need to go to my flat and change into my good suit. I suppose it's a good thing it's Friday._

_Indeed, but no on the suit. Be outside the Yard at 9. No questions. I look forward to it, Gregory. -MH_

Greg just stares at his phone. It's very like Mycroft, but he doesn't argue. He's learning to expect such whims. Instead, he turns to paperwork, almost grateful for the extra time to get his files in better order given the upcoming transfer. He doesn't envy the next bloke one bit. 

\----

"No. He'll like the classic cut, but the color's wrong. Don't get ambitious, Geoffrey, I know how you like to show your talents but Mr. Holmes is well aware of them or he'd take his business elsewhere. I think a coal grey would best suit his pet; bring me something else." 

The tailor scurries off, duly chastened, and Greg swallows hard, feeling like meat on display standing on the slightly raised platform as Anthea appraises him. At least there are no windows in this back room. The shop is closed, and the tailor himself is the only one present.  He strips out of the jacket and trousers and stands in his boxers and his own shirt again, wondering what the man thinks of him. Perhaps his scent is subtle, but he doesn't mask it. The tailor must assume they're a queer, Alpha-Alpha couple, then. He doesn't comment, but likely Anthea's stern presence keeps him from doing so.

"Mm, much better," Anthea approves when Greg has been dressed in a classic dark grey suit with a lighter dove grey waist coat. The relieved tailor scurries off to make some quick adjustments and Greg slips into a white shirt with some outrageous thread count and French cuffs, buttoning it gingerly up. 

"This is insane," he mutters under his breath, and Anthea simply favors him with a small, knowing smile. She's not demonstrative, but Greg's beginning to think he likes her.

"If it must be ready-to-wear, at least it should be a decent style," she chides him, doing up his cuffs herself with discreet platinum cufflinks that read "MH" in script. His stomach jumps just a little. "Mr. Holmes himself will bring you back for fittings to get you in a couple of bespoke numbers."

"Bespoke," Greg exhales. "I'd imagine they'll cost more than my first motorbike."

"Much," she agrees, handing him a striped silk tie in shades of grey and silver. As he moves he feels the difference in the shirt, much softer than any fabric he's ever owned. He tries for a half-Windsor and she just laughs, re-doing it for him. "Stop thinking about the numbers. Mr. Holmes is both quite intelligent in investing his inheritance and fortunate to earn a considerable income at present. You're his now. He'll adorn you as he sees fit." That should probably make Greg feel uncomfortable--he's not a toy--but it's so odd and unexpected to have someone suddenly taking care of him, kitting him out, treating him as his "pet" as if it's the most natural thing in the world, that he thinks he might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"Try these on again," Geoffrey requests, returning to the room and practically cooing when he sees the trousers on. "Good, good, quite smart for short notice if I may say so." Greg, having no opinion on the matter, buttons the waistcoat and slips into the jacket, letting Anthea give the final nod of approval. No money changes hands; Greg imagines Mycroft must have an account at the shop. Before he can put his shoes back on, the driver comes in with a new pair and Anthea hands him a pair of cashmere socks. 

"Italian leather. You'll need to wear them in a bit, but at least you're not going dancing." Greg just sighs and laces up the pair of shiny black loafers with a silver buckle to match the belt he's also been given. He's just ruminating over the obsessive degree of coordination when Anthea holds out a hand.

"Your watch."

"It's silver!"

"It's worn," she smirks. He sighs and hands it over.

"So am I," he mutters as they stand to leave. "Hopefully he won't notice."

"Don't," Anthea rebukes crisply, though her tone turns softer when they're alone in the back seat of the car. "Do you know how long he's been looking for you?"

"For a submissive alpha? Yeah, long time, I gather."

"No, for  _you_. Are you attracted to him solely because he is a dominant Omega?" Her tone is still gentle, but her eyes tell Greg she knows 56 ways to kill him with a PDA stylus and a hairpin. She's been with Mycroft a long time, he can deduce without being a Holmes.

 "No," he responds simply. 

"Why?"

"Because he's... singular." Greg sighs, looking at his hands. "He has more power than anyone I've known, but he also understands it. He gets things, down to the bone. Beyond the deductions and all that. And I think... maybe he really does want me. Personally. When we're in the same room, I don't doubt that at all. But I know he'd be more than capable of manipulating me if he wanted to."

"And that terrifies you."

"No, it doesn't. That's the weird thing. It  _doesn't._  " He offers her a rogue grin. "Which is how I know I'm utterly fucked."

She laughs lightly. "It's because you trust him instinctively. You've known it's right since the beginning, and that's not supposed to happen. Your logical brain is quite pissed off about that... rightly so. It's rare. But it does happen. Trust me, I'm quite familiar." Greg raises his eyebrows, wondering for the first time about  _her_  love life, but the car stops.

"The Dorchester," she announces. "Tell the maître d' you're with Mr. Holmes. He's already inside."

"Are we late?" Greg asks as the driver opens his door.

"Not at all. He likes to watch his prey enter the room," Anthea says with a wink and kiss to his cheek. "Enjoy."

Greg just laughs and buttons his jacket as he stands. Into the breach.

\----

The hostess looks at him admiringly when she realizes he's here for the Table Lumière, and he only understands when he sees the shimmering white curtain surrounding the private dining space in the middle of the restaurant, with its thousands of little lights. It completely obscures the actual table, offering quite total privacy, and his surprise at the whole concept of essentially dining inside a chandelier keeps him from initially noticing that the small table, set with china, only has one chair.

"Excellent," Mycroft purrs, smiling up at him and holding out his hand. The woman vanishes and they are alone at this fairy tale place setting, Mycroft clasping Greg's hand and holding it to his lips. "I knew Anthea would select well." 

Greg doesn't really have the chance to protest as he's guided down to a rather posh embroidered cushion next to Mycroft's chair, and he finds that he doesn't much mind in the hidden alcove. He can't help but voice another concern, however.

"What would she think if she knew I was sitting on the floor in this suit?" he asks, and Mycroft laughs out loud.

"Well I hardly thought you'd consent to dining naked, but if you'd like to correct me...?"

"No, Master," Greg interrupts hastily. He nuzzles a bit into the hand that's placed at his cheek, and stays silent as a waiter--male Omega, soft-voiced and polite--brings a selection of gougères and an aperitif. The drink, Mycroft hands down to Greg, but the gougeres stay on the table, and when the waiter leaves Mycroft feeds him one, light and fluffy with a sharp cheesy taste, by hand. They've been eating this way at home, when there's time, and Greg is getting used to the balance between actually eating the food and showing deference and pleasure, quickly licking any crumbs from Mycroft's fingers.

"I should offer my congratulations, Detective Inspector. A post obviously earned."

Greg smiles. "When did you find out?"

"Only a couple of days previous, when the paperwork was processed. I am somewhat difficult to surprise."

"I've... noticed, Master." Greg grins and sips his drink, a golden liquid that tastes like something in between a white wine and a G&T, and vaguely citrusy. "If I ever really want to surprise you, I'll have to enlist the help of your brother."

"Assuming he'd cooperate," Mycroft counters, handing down another gougère. "I'm sure he's vaguely disgusted by our relationship." 

"No more than anyone's relationship, Master. But I can always bribe him with cold cases."

"Mm. A valuable bait, to be sure. Tell me, do you think your flat would suit Sherlock, when you move your things out? I despise the hovel he calls a home."

"My flat?" It takes Greg a moment to answer. Yes, he's more-or-less living with Mycroft now, and it doesn't surprise him that the arrangement will become more permanent, but it still seems rather major to give up his flat. "I...suppose it might be. I honestly don't know what Sherlock's requirements are in a flat. The one he's in now is better than that drug den. But he'd ruin any place with his papers and experiments and things." 

"Mmm. Regrettably true." Mycroft sips his wine and runs a hand through Greg's hair.  "I was hoping you might mention the idea to him. He doesn't take kindly to my own suggestions, and it  _is_ closer to the Yard."

Greg shrugs. "I don't mind. No guarantee he'll listen." 

"No, I'd hardly expect that."

A sommelier enters the little tent of lights next, and Greg falls silent as Mycroft asks appropriate questions. The man knows his wines, and perhaps is showing off a bit for the sommelier, an Alpha. Greg tenses just barely, because he feels a little more wary of "getting caught" in this position by an Alpha, but Mycroft oozes confidence both casual and absolute, and the man makes him feel safe without even trying. Soon they're alone again and Greg progresses happily through some flaky spinach pastry and an amuse-bouche of some sort of roe passed down to him on a tiny silver spoon that he can stomach if not entirely appreciate. By the time they're drinking a light white wine, he's feeling pleasant and calm and Mycroft allows him to rest against a thigh with the chair turned at an angle out a bit from the table.

"I noticed you're being moved to Homicide, in addition to the promotion. How do you feel about that?" Mycroft asks, once Greg's been allowed to sample a forkful of perfectly prepared vegetables.

"Oh, brilliant. It's definitely a step up, in my opinion. Technically parallel, but usually it's a quicker path to DCI in that division, given how small the trafficking team is."

"And is that what you want? Upper management?"

Greg shrugs. "I suppose, yeah. It's far enough away I haven't given it much thought. I don't exactly enjoy desk work, or publicity, but I like respect. Being appreciated."

"Do you think people don't respect you now? Might they have an instinctive idea of how you are, without really knowing?" 

Greg smiles, because Mycroft says "how" instead of "what" and that means something. Holmes don't accidentally use words. "I don't think so, but I'm not seen as a very strong Alpha. So that matters. I do get stepped on sometimes. I've had to figure out workarounds, and I've had a good DI for three years. She respects my methods, and she's fairly obviously the main reason for the promotion."

Mycroft nods and feeds him another forkful. "What about the work itself? Do you imagine solving murders will be more fulfilling?"

Greg shrugs, finishing the bite before speaking. "I don't know about that. I honestly think being trafficked is a worse fate than death, for some."

"Assuming the death is quick, I would agree."

"You know I started out with Sapphire Command?" 

Mycroft nods. "I've read a file on your work history. When Sherlock first started working with you."

"They've come under fire lately. I'm not surprised. The DI I worked under, Kingsley, he was a tough little shit. I think the DCI put me on his team as a kind of balancing influence. Nobody really wanted Kingsley interviewing a victim, though he was good enough at dealing with the bastards. Typical Alpha, big on protecting the Omegas around him."

"And yet your softer touch was much more effective for actual, human Omegas."

Greg laughs. "Yeah, I reckon so. I always felt a bit awkward about it--I mean, what do I really know about rape, or DV? But I was told I had good instincts. That plus the training, and I did well enough. It took Kingsley an age to actually recommend me for DS, but he finally did it." 

"And then you moved to the Human Trafficking Team?"

"Well, I did six years later." Greg shakes his head. "Twenty-two years of doing DV response and then investigating rape cases, it wears on you. I don't suppose trafficking is any nicer, but it was that or child protection and I had my own kids by then--this was just couple of years ago. Plus, if I was going to do those kind of cases, I thought at least I ought to move to a new team that might be making an actual difference. The Sapphire cases were all so bloody frustrating, worse that half the officers would just stop bothering or start to think the Omega was asking for it. I used to think that someone had to do it, y'know? Might as well be me, better it be someone who would at least try as best he could to solve those cases..."

"But the problem is much bigger than you," Mycroft murmurs, stroking Greg's hair as a fish course arrives. He waits until they're alone again to prompt Greg. "You thought trafficking might make more of a difference."

"Yeah. And honestly, a bit of me thought once your brother got involved with the serial rape cases, he'd be good to have around when it came to sorting out trafficking rings. I was right... the work can be quite a puzzle, given all the bits and bobs and tangled leads."

"He's always enjoyed puzzles." Mycroft smiles, feeding Greg a morsel of fish that's meaty and dressed with a decadent sauce that actually makes him groan. He sips his wine and blushes.

"Is that really fish?"

"That, my pet, is lobster with truffled chicken quenelles, though you've only tried the lobster. Here."

The next bite is a bit of what looks like a dumpling, but tastes outrageously good. "Oh," Greg whispers, reverent. When he looks up, Mycroft appears terribly delighted.

 "We will certainly be arranging for a course in French cuisine, alongside your general culinary training. The look on your face when you taste something you love is almost as good as the look when you hear my permission to taste my cunt." 

Though the word is softly spoken, Greg knows he's red all over. He'd begged for twenty minutes the first time, blushing like a tomato, before Mycroft had let him do it, demanding a range of vocabulary and well-reasoned arguments for  _why_ Greg deserved a proper face-fucking. 

"Thank you, Master," he murmurs, suddenly swarmed with a memory of that barely tangy salt taste and slick clinging to his chin, even as he licks his lips of the buttery sauce. Mycroft's smile is sharp, and he brazenly twists the chair another 30 degrees from the table, spreading his legs so that Greg is facing the fly of his perfectly-cut pinstripe trousers.

"Would you do it?" Mycroft asks, his tone modulated but not quiet. He sips his wine casually like a lord of the realm, his other hand holding the back of Greg's head to prevent him pulling away. "If I asked, would you crawl under the table and lick me right here as that oh-so-determined young Alpha brings the next white? Would you let him witness your depravity?"

Greg's terrified, but he keeps eye contact. "I... I'm yours to command, Master. But it's not depraved."

Mycroft laughs. "Good boy. Yet it is, to him. He wouldn't understand your pride in such an act. You would have to narrow your mind quite entirely to my own wishes. Your obedience would need to consume you, and be unassailable."

"Yes, Master," Greg agrees. He's honest, he does want to obey, but internally he's fully panicking at the idea. Is Mycroft going to make him? He hadn't even required a regular collar, in public, but now that Greg's his, could he? Of course he could. Greg doesn't have the power to turn away from this relationship. Perhaps he would never let Mycroft destroy him--wouldn't be so smitten if he thought Mycroft ever would--but he's sure he would allow the violation of some boundaries. The perfectly amused smile makes him very nervous.

"Can you smell me?" Mycroft asks, inching Greg's head closer. "I'm wearing masking lotion, but tell me, my boy, at this distance, can you smell my cunt?"

Greg can't stop himself. He takes a long, deep inhale. He thinks perhaps he can, just a little, and breathes in again without thinking about it, just to be sure. Mycroft's fingers ruffle the back of his hair.

"Lovely boy. So desperate for a little whiff, just a  _taste_ \--" But suddenly, the chair twists back a precise 30 degrees towards the table, and Greg's only able to blink and barely register Mycroft's hand now at the back of his neck when the Alpha sommelier indeed comes in with a new wine. It takes Greg a second to register when Mycroft reaches down for his empty glass, and he exhales fully only when the man leaves, a second fish course on the table alongside the wine. 

"I would never do that to you, Gregory," Mycroft muses, tender now, his hand caressing the back of Greg's neck. He looks up and Mycroft's expression is lovely and warm. "I would never compromise your trust in that way. It's only that you're very easy to read," he teases, brushing the back of his hand along Greg's cheek. "And I have excellent hearing for footsteps."

Greg allows him a little smile, relaxation hormones flooding his body in response to the relief. His arm loosely circles Mycroft's calf, and Mycroft dips his finger in the new wine, offering it to Greg's lips. "He's entirely convinced you're an Omega. Dullards." Mycroft rolls his eyes and Greg has to hold back an unattractive snort of a laugh from his nose while he's sucking the wine from Mycroft's fingertip.

"Well. He's not close enough to smell me, Master."

"No. Nor shall he ever be," Mycroft announces firmly, and Greg just smiles, indulging in the moment to rest his head on Mycroft's thigh.

\--

He gets the text at one on a Wednesday, and fortunately isn't in the middle of something he can't set aside for a lunch break.  _My office. At your first availability (not convenience)._ That was all it said, and so Greg books it on his ten minute walk to the building located (quite suspiciously, he thinks) in Lambeth, equidistant from Westminster and Vauxhall. Mycroft looks calm when he enters, not an international crisis, then, but Greg startles when Mycroft reaches under his desk and not only do all doors in the room click shut, but the cheery windows with a view of the river go black.

"Gregory," Mycroft smiles, not the genuine smile Greg has become accustomed to but a mocking little curl of the lips.  _Uh-oh._  "In a rush this morning, were you?"

"Um... A bit, yeah..." He hesitates, thinking of Mycroft's propensity for hidden cameras, at least according to his brother. "Mister Holmes."

"Blackout mode," Mycroft says sharply, gesturing to the window. "No eyes, ears, or physical access."

"Master," Greg corrects himself quickly. 

"I thought so."

"I... left the kettle warming for you, Master... I thought..." Greg suddenly doubts his own memory, shifting nervously from foot to foot. 

"Not the kettle, Gregory. I distinctly remember teaching you how to organize my kitchen. It is evident from how you unloaded the dishwasher this morning that you weren't listening very carefully. Step forward." Greg gulps and steps up to the desk. 

"Bend over." Greg's eyes widen, but he bends onto the empty desk, cheek against a black blotter, as Mycroft produces a thin riding crop and slides the tip up to Greg's face. "Kiss, submissive."

Greg feels his cock stiffen in his trousers. Probably not the point, but the scent of leather invades his nose as he presses his lips to it and he breathes a sigh of relief when Mycroft pronounces "Ten."

The man laughs, coming around the desk. "Don't be so sure of my mercy until you've felt my ten," he warns. "This is a first offense, but I told you I would be hard with you. Pull your trousers to your thighs; if you're going to have trouble with simple chores then I'm happy to treat you like an errant schoolboy."

Hands shaking a bit, Greg undoes his belt and jumps a little when Mycroft suddenly kicks his feet apart. Legs spread, Greg's trousers and briefs stay at thigh-level, and he feels terribly exposed. "The count and a nice loud thank you, Master after each, if you please," Mycroft instructs. There's no soothing caress or warmup to this, just a sudden  _crack_ of the stiff leather loop high on his ass, left side. "One!" he exclaims after a puff of an exhale. It's certainly painful as it's meant to be. "Thank you, Master."

Right side, same height, "two!" Greg calls out, blushing at the thought of being overheard, even though he's sure "blackout" means "soundproof." "Thank you, Master."

Mycroft doesn't touch or come closer, but he does pause after the first two, not hurrying this. Greg feels the full sensation of the red-hot sting burning through him, gradually fading, before "three! Thank you, Master," an inch lower. Greg marvels at Mycroft's precision, the third and fourth laid in exact vertical alignment to one and two, one inch below. Five also comes at the same point of fade that three did, so that as Mycroft layers full-force swats, Greg can feel the ladder of sensation, the lowest burning the brightest and the rest now duller in increments, though still possible to feel as little rectangles of phantom sensation. 

"What lesson are you thanking me for?" Mycroft asks after six.

"For... teaching me to keep your things in perfect order, according to your system, Master," Greg says, a little breathless. There's no "right" or "wrong," just another sharp-edged smack and half-a-second's fumbling before Greg remembers the number "seven... Thank you, Master." He gasps a breathy  _oh!_  before "eight!" low on the sweet spot of his arse next to seven, a genuine groan of "thank you, Master!" accompanying it. He wants to be  _fucked_ by something, and doesn't have time to consider that desire before Mycroft breaks the pattern, quick sharp pain flaring across his arsehole and taint before he mumbles a confused "nine-ten, thank you Master." 

Silence greets him. It's long minute of silence, pain flaring hot in three dotted vertical lines--two long, one short up the center--before Mycroft drags him up to stand by the back of his jacket. He never took it off and he's sweating, loopy. "Trousers," Mycroft murmurs at his ear, pressed along the length of him from behind, and he grabs to pull up his pants and zip his trousers up carefully over his erection, doing up his belt with Mycroft not budging at inch. Mycroft turns him then, looks at him a long, intense minute with eyes like fire, Greg's sore arse pressed into the sharp edge of the wooden desk, before he licks the pad of his thumb and rubs it hard against Greg's cheek. "Ink," he murmurs, then steps away leaving Greg reeling, going back to his chair.

_Dismissed._

Greg can't bring himself to frown, though, as he heads to the lift with his arse burning and his trousers tented. He doesn't suppose tenderness or aftercare go with a punishment, at least not one that basic. His head should be clear by the time he gets back to NSY, grabbing a sandwich on the way, and the stretch of hot abused skin over muscle as he walks is not entirely unpleasant. In fact, once he steps out into the cool air, he's actually grinning, and starts to whistle. His pocket buzzes with a text a moment later. 

_That wasn't meant to be erotic. -MH_

Greg barks a laugh, and returns to work in a very pleasant mood indeed.

\--

"Hey. Can I come in?"

"Case?" Sherlock asks eagerly, though he steps inside in the doorway before getting an answer. The Alpha pheromones are a bit strong--even if he did have a case, Greg wouldn't let him out of the flat before catching up on obviously skipped showers. 

"No. There won't be, until the transfer. I'm only wrapping up loose ends now, but I wanted to talk to you about another thing." Greg eyes the stacks of books and an unidentifiable baggie of brown goo on the desk chair and opts to lean against the wall. 

"Please spare me the details of your unconventional but nonetheless  _relationship_  with my brother. Not my area."

Greg smiles. "It's not really about that. Well it is, in that it's the reason for the availability, but... I thought you might like to let my flat. Starting the first of the year. It's a bit nicer, and a much better location."

"Wrong!  _Mycroft_ wanted me to let your flat, likely to make it easier for him to bug in advance, and you're so insufferably submissive that you're here to ask on his behalf." 

The smile is gone. Face creased with anger, Greg steps forward. "Now wait just--"

Sherlock holds up a hand to block his argument. "Don't be offended, all Omegas are. It's not about your unusual dynamic. I find myself generally  _anti_ -dynamic, unless it's useful."

"Isn't it always useful?"

"Normally for sex." Sherlock makes his "plebians!" face. "It doesn't matter. I've actually secured a flat in Montague Street. I move in six days."

"What? Really?"

"Yes, really." Sherlock looks rather irked, and Greg puts it together, grinning. "You've been evicted. Again." 

"I'm tired of the neighborhood."

"You blew something up."

"You're the one giving up your flat despite the fact that your  _children_ barely see you as it is," Sherlock ripostes, and Greg falls silent. "What are they going to say to Daddy living with the fussy man in the big posh house, on his knees all the time? Perhaps more relevant, what are they going to stay to their mother and stepfather?"

Greg clenches his fists, but his expression nearly goes blank. He's been too excited to really think about that consequence, and now he needs to  _not be here_. He knows, as he storms out of the flat, that this was probably Sherlock's intention, but he can't bring himself to give a damn.

\----

"Gregory," Mycroft starts on him the moment he appears in the kitchen. "What happened?"

Greg sighs, wishing for the first time in their new relationship for privacy. "Sherlock happened. Could I have a minute?"

Mycroft's eyes narrow, studying him for a moment. "No." He puts a plate of takeout curry from the previous night in the top-of-the-line microwave and turns back to Greg. "Tell me."

Greg takes a deep breath and manages not to punch anything. "I asked him about the flat. He pointed out that if I give it up, I'll have nowhere to see Rory and Emily. That if they view their Da's...  _deviance..._ " he spits, "they might tell someone who would care. And I might never see them again."

To his surprise, Mycroft steps around the island and slaps him in the face. Then he pulls Greg into a hug so tight he wants to explode out of it, and murmurs in his ear. "That will never happen. And you will never use that word to refer to us, Gregory. Am I understood?" Greg wants to rage in response, and Mycroft just holds him harder, as if he knows.

"I won't have to. That's what anyone who finds out will think."

"Then  _fuck_ them," Mycroft pronounces sharply. He nods at the cushion that lives on the floor by the kitchen table these days. "Knees."

Greg obeys, feeling shaky, and Mycroft cracks open a beer for him, then gives him the plate of food and a fork when the microwave beeps. He lets Greg feed himself, but sits in the chair, stroking Greg's hair. "You've lived in this society your entire life. You're strong. And you will not be separated from your children. I'll pay to keep your flat. It will be useful for a place to sleep near the Yard when you're working late. We can use it for storage, even. And you'll introduce me to your children as a friend, if you wish to do so at all, and perhaps eventually when they are old enough to bear such a secret, you will convey the truth. But I would never force you do so, nor put you in a position that would keep you from seeing them. You are their father." Mycroft keeps stroking soothingly, and after he's put some beer and curry in him, Greg feels somewhat better.

"You don't have to pay for the flat. I'm fine doing it myself. I'll be getting a pay rise." Mycroft hums non-committally. Greg doesn't believe that conversation is over, but lets it drop for now.

"Do you think your ex-wife would take any action, supposing she knew? It wouldn't likely come as a surprise..."

"I don't know for sure. But I think  _he_  would. Any excuse."

"Don't be surprised," Mycroft suggests wryly, "if he suddenly finds himself in custody for a felony."

Greg snorts.  "He's a wanker, not a criminal."

"Note that I didn't suggest he would  _commit_ one..."

Greg laughs heartily, but shakes his head. "Please, Master, no obstruction of justice when I'm paying attention."

Mycroft smiles and strokes his cheek. " _There_  we are. First time you've called me Master tonight."

Greg blushes. "I'm so--"

"No." Mycroft only leans down and kisses him, gently, on the mouth. "We have our moments. I'm glad to have you back, pet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the end of the sex scene, I've taken to thinking of Greg as "The Impossible Girl minus the soufflés and lack of character development" in my head.
> 
> Also, unrelated to this, but I'm filling prompts if you're interested here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1582307


	3. the root of the root and the bud of the bud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of a little bit of plot and a lot of blatant porn. Oh yeah, and heat, that's a thing. I can't believe I actually wrote kids in a fic, and also wrote heat porn in the same chapter. Going to hell, party of one. All the cool people are there anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is kind of annoying me that this is only 5,000 words but I really wanted the break point here. It's possible that I may add a scene in the future, but for now, I know y'all want stuff to read, so here you are! Thank you so much for all the positive feedback. I honestly wouldn't be doing this without it--I didn't used to do WIPs, but I've started because I need that motivation. I am very, very slowly trying to learn how to reply to comments, but know that I read and value every single one.
> 
> Just a reminder that this verse is an AU, not a manual for how to practice BDSM in the real world. While Greg and Mycroft do negotiate and establish consent, there are certain norms, expectations, and assumptions in this society that do not exist in ours.
> 
> Finally, a warning for this chapter--Paul, the Alpha who is now with Greg's ex, does appear, and there is some thinly veiled queerphobia. Nothing violent or dramatic.

_Onset in four hours. Execute plan A with haste. -MH_

The text is perfunctory and cryptic, but it doesn't need to be longer. They've talked about this already--Mycroft's heat scheduled to come on this month, the logistics of how Greg would get out of work. But they haven't discussed any of the grittier details, anything about the sex, and Greg realizes as he leaves the Yard that he's been intentionally  _not_ thinking about it. Theoretically he should jump at the chance to bed an Omega in heat. His biology demands it, even, and once he gets close to Mycroft he likely won't be able to stop himself. But the whole idea is... _messy_ , not just literally so but emotionally. Despite the fact that Mycroft is demanding that he be there, it still feels like an expectation that he be more dominant, more  _properly Alpha_ for his Omega's estrus _._  His stop for a quick lunch before he's locked away in a room for the marathon sex session turns into an hour sitting in the deli. By the time he steps into the flat, the scent is unmistakeable. Mycroft's heat has already started.

Greg hangs his coat and jacket up in the hall, takes off his tie, removes his shoes, and washes his hands in the powder room before giving into the inevitable and heading downstairs to the basement playroom. Mycroft prefers to spend his heat there--the padded rubber floors easier to clean, Greg guesses--and he's assured Greg that it would be well stocked. The Omega scent almost knocks him over as he descends the stairs. No pheromone-blockers during heat, then, likely due to the health risks. He expects to find Mycroft on the bed, perhaps fucking himself with a toy, and braces himself to participate. He does not expect to enter the playroom to a fully-clothed Mycroft Holmes slapping him across the face.

"Not cute, Gregory," Mycroft enunciates, his Ts perfectly crisp. He steps back and looks Greg up and down, laying him open with his gaze. Greg is used to being deduced, but there's something pointed now in Mycroft's expression that feels even more penetrating, perhaps more smug. 

"It seems I overestimated you," Mycroft bites, looking Greg directly in the eye now. Greg's gaze drops and he blushes slightly. He's still surprised, eyes on Mycroft's polished designer shoes, that the man is dressed for the office. "You've made a very facile assumption that I would become submissive and needy for you in heat." Greg's blush intensifies. "Foolish, given the data. Perhaps it's true that heat hormones fog Alpha brains, no matter their propensities." He lifts Greg's head with a hard grip on his jaw and smiles like a snake. "Though the results are unsurprisingly different in you. Anxiety. Fear of dysphoria when forced to perform. Fear of failure based on your history of abuse and humiliation. You needn't think that way, my pet. My heats do not alter my essential nature. I am hardly submissive, nor do I intend to recline on my back and beg you to fuck me. If anything, the effect of heat hormones makes me more dominant, not less so."

Greg's shoulders drop with relief at that, but Mycroft quickly strips him of the feeling. "Very selfish of you," he rebukes. "Disobeying a direct order, dawdling without bothering to communicate or simply  _ask_  about your concerns. The degree to which you were very, very wrong about the characteristics of my heat is going to  _hurt_  for you, Gregory." He points to a red leather bench with separate knee pads and a cylindrical piece to lean over, facing the queen-sized bed. "Strip and kneel." 

For a moment, Greg is frozen in place, and when he takes a deep breath, the scent suddenly assaults him in a much more welcome way, realizing it won't force a role shift. His cock rises and he mumbles an "I'm really sorry, Master."

Mycroft just raises an eyebrow. " _Strip. And kneel._ " 

This time, Greg bolts into action, removing his clothes as quickly as he can. As soon as he's on the bench, Mycroft secures his legs with wide leather straps, then firmly positions his arms to cross under the bar and straps them there as well. Greg watches greedily as Mycroft steps towards the bed, removing his jacket, tie, and shoes, but his hopes of voyeurism fade when Mycroft reaches into his trousers, smears fluid over Greg's filtrum, just under his nose, and then walks towards the stairs. 

_Well, shit._  Any assumptions Greg had about Mycroft's desperation were obviously incorrect. Of course he's aroused--he wouldn't be producing such a scent otherwise--but his need doesn't seem to be consuming him. If anything, perhaps it's fueling his degree of control, and that would be incredibly sexy if not for Greg's fear about just how long he'll be trapped in bondage like this.

\---- 

The answer, it seems, is far too long. Greg has very little sense of time with his cock hard against his stomach and that intoxicating scent just underneath his nose. He could lick it away, but he's hesitant to do so, as he imagines this was the point. Even thinking about the idea of being restrained by the threat of Mycroft's disapproval makes Greg groan. So he struggles with it, the scent that doesn't seem to fade no matter how much time passes. He feels half-high and is actively fighting against the bondage, writhing into the bench, by the time Mycroft storms into the dungeon, naked and more dominant than ever. He releases one of Greg's arms, but binds the other in place again, then guides Greg's hand straight to his cunt, legs spread and feet braced as he faces Greg. Greg makes a sound that's more like a cry than anything else, greedily screwing his fingers up inside the dripping hole, and continues to rock against the sturdy furniture.

"Who's desperate now?" Mycroft snaps, bracing his hands on Greg's upper back. The position both pins Greg firmly in place and makes him feel slightly suffocated, covered by Mycroft's upper body. It's weirdly comforting in this headspace, feeling frenzied and about to explode out of his head. 

"I am, Master," he gasped. "I'm so sorry, please..." 

"Fist," Mycroft bites out, and Greg just whimpers as he pushes four fingers in together with his thumb tucked against them, then curls his hand up inside Mycroft. He earns a pleased gasp and harder pressure on his back. The position is a strain, but he hardly thinks of it as fluid rolls down his forearm, his fist pushing up into Mycroft's body in response to his partner's cues. He inhales deeply, hips shoving at air, and Mycroft comes with a shout, nearly collapsing. As it is, it takes him a good minute to push up from Greg's back and let him slide his hand out. When he does, he sits back onto the foot of the bed, looking smug, and nods at Greg's hand. 

 "Lick, and beg me."

Greg whimpers once, his frenzied movement finally tempered by physical exhaustion, and lifts a shaking hand to his mouth, nearly crying as he sucks the fluid from the base of his thumb. 

"Pleasemaster," he mumbles into his own skin. "Please use my cock." He greedily licks more, rubbing his face against it like he habitually does Mycroft's pussy, knowing how much Mycroft likes seeing his chin and nose slick.

"Why should I?"

"I don't  _know_ ," Greg whines. "Be...b-because I'll give you a knot, because it'll make you feel good, I'll do fucking anything you say..."

 "Would you restrain yourself?" Mycroft asks, remarkably calm. "If I didn't  _want_  you to knot me, would you hold back?"

"Oh God," Greg gasps. "Oh God, please, I  _can't,_ I want to so bad, but I can't, please..."

"Tell me why you can't," Mycroft demands.

"Because I'm not  _you_ ," he whimpers. "I can't control myself like that, I can't..." 

"No you can't," Mycroft purrs, standing again and stroking Greg's hair as he tries to lick the last remnants of Mycroft's heat-sweet taste from the back of his hand. "Because you have  _no_ control like this. My sweet little cunt-slave." Greg  _whines_ , high and nasal, nearly a horse's whinny, and is afraid he might pass out.

"Pl-ple-pl..."

"Oh dear," Mycroft coos. "Your knees must be in a dreadful state." He releases the bindings, and when Greg tries to get to his feet he instead stumbles and slumps against the equipment. He manages on the second try, with Mycroft's help, and only realizes Mycroft's new surge of energy when the man shoves him hard onto the bed. Some dim back corner of his mind thinks Sherlock would be fascinated by this unusual version of an Omega heat, but then probably  _not_  willing to ask his brother for sex details. The rest of his brain is quite focused on Mycroft straddling his thighs, holding his dick and stroking up the length of it.

"My prize," Mycroft purrs, looking at Greg's cock like a hundred-year-old bottle of scotch. Greg whimpers. "I am going to  _destroy_ you."

God, Greg hopes so.

\--- 

Forty-eight hours later, Greg's body emerges from its hormonal fog, triggered by the end of Mycroft's heat. He blinks awake, alone in the big bed, and groans as he takes a self-assessment. Knees and back: killing him. Cock: finally soft and tender to touch. Head: aching. And to top it all off, he's famished. Finally: Mycroft is coming down the stairs and whistling.

Greg just stares.

"Good morning, Gregory. Feeling rather atrocious, I presume. You have one more day off, so I suggest you make the most of it." He's carrying a tray laden with food, coffee, a large glass of water, and a couple of pain pills. He's dressed casually, for Mycroft anyway, in his usual pressed trousers and dress shirt but without jacket or tie, shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up. He looks phenomenal, but Greg's pretty sure he won't be up for sex for another week, so he just smiles weakly as Mycroft puts the tray on the nightstand and takes the water and pills offered.

 "You're very...energetic," Greg observes, and Mycroft laughs.

"I did sleep in, if it makes you feel any better. I am sore in places." He quirks a smile, and Greg grins at that. "I've always found the longer rest at the end of a heat quite rejuvenating, in any event. A change from my generally poor sleep quality."

Greg frowns. "I've never noticed that you have sleep problems."

 "Mm," Mycroft glances down at the food, non-committal, and sits next to Greg, feeding him a muffin. "Perhaps not, as of late," he admits, and for some reason, that makes Greg happier than almost any declaration of love could. 

\----

Planning for Christmas is not what Greg would call a  _fun_  experience. It's his fourth one since the divorce, and it takes some doing to get his ex-wife to agree to his picking the kids up after the traditional Christmas dinner to spend the night and Boxing Day with Greg. They've planned to have tea together at Mycroft's house, and then Greg will take the kids back to his flat for the night. It grates a little, but as much as he'd just like to forget the holiday, the kids would be crushed. So he's standing now on Paul's parents' front step in Kent at four in the afternoon, Mycroft beside him, hands shoved in his pockets against the cold. The location is surely a power play--he doesn't recognize the older woman who answers the door, and almost winces when he hears Rory's calling "grandma! Who is it?"

 "Erm, hello. I'm Greg. Lestrade. Rory and Emily's da."

"Right, of course. Come inside, they're just gathering their things. Would you like to sit down with us? Have some food before you go?"

"Ah, that's all right, thank you. We've got a meal waiting for us back at home," Greg explains, stepping into a cosy foyer. "Oh, and this is my friend Mycroft Holmes. He's joining us for dinner." 

"Ah lovely," she smiles. "Alpha bachelors on Christmas, must be awful. I hope you had someone to cook for you," she teases in a grandmotherly way that Greg can't bring himself to be angry about, her own Omega smell detectable under cranberries and sage.

"We've made do," Greg assures her. In fact, the meal is mostly Greg's own effort, thanks to his cooking lessons, with a few things picked up from a fancy gourmet shop Mycroft likes.  

"Ah, good, I'll just check on them, then," she suggests, heading up the stairs and leaving them alone. 

"Yeah, this isn't awkward at  _all_ ," Greg mutters. "It's not just me, is it? They are doing this to make me look stupid and pathetic and lonely?" he asks under his breath.

Mycroft presses a briefly steadying hand to the small of Greg's back. "Yes," he agrees, brutally honest when he knows that Greg needs him to be. "He is, at least. The mother genuinely likes your children. She doesn't know the...circumstances of your divorce." 

"Thank God for small mercies," Greg mutters, looking up as Allison enters the foyer. She's dressed in a red print and has a designer haircut.

 "Greg, love, Merry Christmas," she smiles, giving him a hug and a brief kiss. "Sorry they're not quite ready, you know how Emily is. Has to take half her new toys with her." She rolls her eyes. "Hope your car has room."

"Yeah," Greg agrees. "It'll do fine. Did they get good loot, then?" 

"Barbie's three-story dreamhouse," a suave Alpha Greg would be content never to see again says as he joins his wife. "And a Wii for Rory. Hello, Gregory."

Paul extends his hand and Greg wants to crawl into a hole as he shakes it. He hates that Mycroft is seeing the man who got the better of him, tall and all muscle with infuriating perfect olive skin and a head of curls to rival Sherlock's. Paul's handshake is firm, and his eyes glint with knowledge. 

"Paul," Greg mutters. "This is my good friend Mycroft Holmes."

"Ah. The season for... good friends," Paul says knowingly, his tone teasing as his mother's but far less kind.  Greg only realizes in that moment, as the two men shake hands, how this must look. Like Paul is being proven right, like Greg is being cuckolded by the Alpha he needs to debase him as Paul had expected. He wishes he could dissuade Paul of those notions, but that would require outing Mycroft, which he would never do. Before either Greg or Mycroft can say anything, small footsteps come thundering down the stairs. With a sense of relief, Greg scoops tiny Emily off the third step from the bottom and hoists her into his arms, My Little Pony backpack and all. 

"Hello, sweetheart! Has your Christmas been good so far?"

"Yes!" she squeals. "Daddy, Paul got me Barbie! And Santa brought Pinkie Pie things!"

"Oh? What's a Pinkie Pie?"

"A  _pony_ , silly da!" She pokes his chest and then notices Mycroft, wide eyed. "Do you like ponies?"

"I... rode a lovely gelding when I was a boy," Mycroft responds, and Emily just looks confused. 

 "She means My Little Pony," Paul's mum explains helpfully, coming down the stairs with a suitcase. "Friendship is Magic. It's a children's television show."

"Ah. I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with that programme, but perhaps you can teach me about it," Mycroft offered. "Is Pinkie Pie your favorite pony?"

"Yes!" Emily cheers. "Pinkie Pie." 

"You might like Twilight Sparkle, Mycroft," Allison suggests. 

"But Greg's more of a Rainbow Dash bloke," Paul smirks as Rory runs down the stairs.

 "Da! Did Santa come to your house, too?"

"He did," Greg smiles, ignoring the insult in favor of his son. "Technically, he came to my friend Mycroft's house," he explains, nodding at Mycroft. "We're going there first, for tea and presents."

"Oh." Rory stares for a moment. "Are we going there in a car?"

"Indeed," Mycroft agrees. "The driver is just outside."

"Someone  _else_  drives your car for you?" Rory exclaims. 

"Well, it's not my personal car," Mycroft admits as Rory runs to the window.

"Mister, that's not a car, it's a  _limo_!" Rory shouts excitedly. Mycroft looks slightly smug at Paul.

"Technically, yes." 

"Can we go now, Da?" 

"Sure we can. Got all your things?" 

Rory nods, tugging a small suitcase behind him. "Bye, Mummy!"

"Bye, sweetheart. Be good," Allison chides, crouching down to kiss his cheek and then standing again to kiss Emily. "We'll see you tomorrow. By four," she adds, giving Greg a stern look. 

"I've got it, Ally," Greg confirms, hoisting Emily up on his hip and trying not to actually pull a face. "I need my hands for the car seats, sweetheart. Why don't you and Rory go look at the car?" he suggests, putting Emily down with her brother. Once she's waved "bye bye!" to everyone present, the kids following Paul's mum to the car, Greg grabs the two car seats by their handles, Mycroft getting Emily's case.

"You know it's just money," Paul bites. "You can't win a child with money alone.  Nor, for that matter, an 'Alpha,'" he adds, making air quotes with his fingers. "I had Greg for a while... could've longer, if I'd wanted him." A little lump forms in Greg's stomach, but Mycroft speaks first, his voice deadly calm.

"It is money in part," Mycroft concedes. "But certainly not  _just_ money. Not when it comes to Gregory." Greg swallows, wondering if Mycroft is about to out them in the name of Alpha competition. "He is far more concerned about other qualities. Namely, the fact that I am a far better friend to him than you ever were, in my estimation. I have certainly never viewed Gregory as property... he is in fact, the best Alpha I have ever had the privilege to know, and I value our friendship highly. If you'll excuse us," he finishes primly, cutting off any response effectively as he turns to go, and Greg follows him out of the house without anything to add in his own defense.

He feels lighter as soon as they're outside, the door shut behind them. "Christ," he mutters. "I almost was afraid you were going to say..."

"No," Mycroft reassures him quickly. "I  _do_  work for the Secret Service, Gregory. I've hardly folded under far more pressure than that."

Greg raises his eyebrows at the admission, but quickly gets pulled into Rory's excitement about the car, worth the pain of Paul's jibes. 

"Does this car cost a  _million_ pounds?" he asks as the driver opens the back door for Greg to get the car seats in, Emily toddling happily in the grass.

"Not nearly that much," Mycroft replies, sounding slightly surprised at the blunt question. Greg imagines he hasn't spent much time around kids.

 "Can I ride backwards?" Rory asks hopefully.  

"All right, but if you get carsick, it won't be pleasant," Greg warns. "How much did you eat for dinner?" 

"Not too much!" Rory promises. "And Mummy only let me have  _one_  serving of pudding." 

"Smart woman, your mum is. Plus, you're a lucky boy," Greg points out, helping him into the seat and strapping him in. "We've got afters as well for when you finish your tea, if you like."

"Oh!" Rory exclaims. "I'd like that very much." 

Greg grins, winking at Mycroft as he slides back out of the seat for the smaller rear-facing car seat. After getting it buckled in and Emily inside, he gestures to Mycroft. "I'll sit next to Emily."

"Not afraid I'll get carsick?" Mycroft teases as they slide in next to the kids. 

"It would surely take a greater beast to slay you," Greg replies, rolling his eyes a bit and fastening his seatbelt.

"Da, why are we going to your friend's house for Christmas? Shouldn't he be with his own family?" 

"Well," Greg explains gently, glancing at Mycroft. "I think maybe Mycroft's just a bit lonely at the holidays. His brother prefers not to spend time with him, so... I thought he might enjoy having dinner with us instead. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"Oh. Yes," Rory decides, looking up at Mycroft. "I'm sorry your brother's mean, Mister. We'll be nice to you, promise."

"Ah, well that's... very kind, Rory, thank you." Greg hides a smile. A few hours with the kids is going to be more than enough for the man, he's quite certain. But the fact that he wants to try means worlds. 

\-----

 "Was everything all right?" Mycroft asks when Greg returns after dropping the kids off at Ally and Paul's flat on the outskirts of London, closing his laptop lid and tossing a cushion down for Greg, where he kneels happily after two days going without.

"Not bad, actually. Paul was scarce. Maybe you scared him off for a bit." 

"Good. And Allison?" 

Greg shrugs. "Happy to have them back. She doesn't really want me to have any time with them. It's rather hypocritical," he explains, resting his cheek against Mycroft's thigh. "On the one hand, she blames my supposed deviance for both our children being Omegas, but at the same time she thinks I'm irrelevant for raising them, since I don't have anything additional to provide in her mind. She'd rather have her new nuclear family and forget I was ever involved."

 Mycroft runs a soothing hand through his hair. "She's a self-hating omega."

"She... thinks Alphas are better. She doesn't want our children to have to survive as Omegas, either. When she got pregnant with Emily it was... tense. We were only having sex during her heats at that point, and she missed a pill. She started the cheating pretty soon after Emily, I think." Greg shrugs. "I suppose it's easier to frame me as the bad parent who's always busy than to try to actually incorporate me into their normal little life. And to be honest, I  _don't_ have much time for them. Kids probably weren't the smartest choice for us, but they're here now, and I don't want them to  _only_  grow up around rigid views like his."

 "I wouldn't let that man raise my  _dog_ ," Mycroft snarls, his hand tightening for a moment in Greg's hair. Greg laughs. 

 "I'm trying to imagine you with a dog now, Master. Did you ever have one?" 

"Sherlock did. I was far less sentimental."

"Hmm. So you claim."  

"Don't brat," Mycroft warns, pinching his shoulder. 

"I'm not. Perhaps not sentimental, but... you're far warmer than most people suspect. Just between us." Greg glances up and Mycroft shrugs, scratching at Greg's scalp. 

"I care for you. Deeply," he murmurs, and that's plenty for Greg, who closes his eyes and just lets himself drift.

\----

A few days before the New Year, Greg has the day off and Mycroft, after taking morning meetings, works from home in the afternoon. It's rare that they actually can do this, but Greg gets the feeling Anthea has a hand in scheduling, making it possible to work remotely when Mycroft can on a day Greg has off. He's kneeling on a large cushion, naked but for his necklace, chest on his thighs, his mouth at Mycroft's shoes. He kisses them methodically, taking his time while Mycroft categorically ignores him, focused on his laptop. Mycroft is still dressed in trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, though he wears his sleeves rolled up and has removed his belt and his tie in deference to the room temperature set for Greg's comfort.

 It's a luxury to have this time to linger in subspace, and Greg indulges in it, pressing a simple kiss to each inch of leather, taking his time. He closes his eyes, focusing on the smell and the feel of the shoe clasped in his hand. It's not overtly sexual, with his tongue remaining in his mouth, but it does hit his service kink to do this, even if it's not exactly functional. After a while, the shoe not in his hand moves to rest on his back, and then the other pulls away so that Mycroft's legs are crossed at the ankle, one heel resting on Greg's arse. He breathes slowly and deeply, resting his forehead on the cushion between parallel forearms, and lets himself drift as he serves this simple purpose. 

Mycroft never says a word.

\----

Late the next night, Greg is on his back, efficiently bound by wrists and ankles to the bed. Mycroft straddles his hips, just home from a late night of work and fully dressed from the waist up. His tie even still looks perfect as he lifts Greg's cock and uses it like a toy made from flesh, rubbing the straining erection against his clit.

"Dirty boy," Mycroft teases, masturbating with just the head of Greg's cock, stimulating his clit with side-to-side motions. "You're starting to drip. Does my pussy really make you this hard?" 

Greg whimpers. "Yes, Master. Please."

 "Please what." 

"Please fuck me, please fuck my cock," he gasps. 

"I  _am_ fucking your cock." 

"Oh God," Greg moans. "May I come, Master?" 

"No." Mycroft is calm, obviously enjoying himself. Greg is about to have a conniption.

"Please!" he whines. Mycroft has switched his technique, pressing Greg's cock against his vulva with four fingers pointing towards the base and then rocking his hips in quick little motions. 

 "No," he repeats. He closes his eyes and tilts his head side to side as if stretching his neck. His moan is soft and cut-off, but it makes Greg's cock throb.

"Master..."

"Control yourself," Mycroft snaps, eyes opening to glare at Greg.  _"Toy._ " Greg gasps and squeaks simulataneously, and almost breaks into an inconvenient choking fit. He does stop begging, though. Often, Mycroft likes it. Other nights, he prefers to use Greg and deny him pleasure entirely, drifting off with Greg hard and wanting. The ring around the base of Greg's cock where his knot would form is evidence of this choice for tonight, and so Greg tries to slow his mental track, even as Mycroft's movements become more frenzied. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Mycroft's, soaking up his partner's intensity and riding on his own submission. When Mycroft comes, his hips snap and his hand presses slightly painfully on Greg's cock, forcing another high whimper out of his haze. He pushes through another orgasm, giving Greg more pressure as the volume of his cries increase. When he's finally sated, he rubs Greg's cock between his labia, stroking it with his own lubrication. "Mm," Mycroft coos, licking his lips and watching Greg's body responds. "Am I hurting you, toy?"

 "Yes," Greg gasps.

"Good. I like hurting my cock sometimes." 

Greg breathes carefully, forcing himself not to hyperventilate. "Yes, Master."

"I think you should sleep like this," Mycroft decides, removing the ring but removing the stimulation as well, kissing him hard and then flipping onto his side, hitting the light switch and scooting back so that Greg's cock nuzzles just under his arsehole, trapped between his thighs. Greg tries not the breathe too heavily against the back of his neck, wrapping an arm around Mycroft and attempting to relax.

\----- 

When John Watson shows up at Lauriston Gardens, Greg really doesn't have the first clue what to think. The man's build and the way he walks behind Sherlock might suggest Omega, but then everyone walks behind Sherlock, given how quickly Sherlock walks, and height is generally one of those traits that goes more to gender than to sex, Mycroft's height being an obvious example of that, though some smaller male Alphas wear lifts in their shoes. Doctor Watson walks with a cane, but he also has a strong posture when he's standing, a military bearing that suggests strength and perhaps dominance. He isn't easy to read right off, and it's only when Greg catches a whiff of scent that he confirms Watson is an Omega.

Later, Mycroft admits to "testing" the man's loyalty, and he sounds unusually impressed, for Mycroft. John is in fact a military Omega, one of the specialists who are allowed to join the Army, even unbonded, given the need for doctors and a few other specialties in the field. The program pairs them with an official guardian of sorts and arrangements are made for heats--Greg can't imagine volunteering for such a thing, but after a little more time in John Watson's company he's convinced the man is nearly as cracked as is Sherlock.  

At the comprehensive school, Mycroft shows up with Anthea at his crime scene, and it's that surprise that keeps him from connecting the dots from the unexpected shooter to military Omega Doctor Watson for a few more hours. He and Mycroft don't leave together, and he wrestles with the ethical problem for a little longer before he gives up and heads home. He'll check John for GSR when he takes his statement. It's up to Sherlock whether to do anything about the state of his flatmate's hands in the intervening period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unapologetic PS: A friend pointed out, so accurately, that Mycroft is in fact Princess Celestia. Werk.
> 
> (Oh hey, and I have a tumblr now. It only has three followers. Help me out with that? http://viklikesfic.tumblr.com)


	4. epilogue: i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In sum, it all just somehow makes sense.

Rather than making more typical sounds of pain when Greg knots him, Mycroft _roars_ , as if to express that stuffing all this inside himself is a bloody accomplishment and that anyone worth his sexual salt should be impressed by it. Greg ejaculates helplessly up into him, demanding muscles clenching around his knot and drawing more semen up inside Mycroft's body. Mycroft claws a hard scratch down Greg's jaw, feeding him the pain like an elicit kiss, watching him whimper as he continues to spurt. 

"Knot me, bitch," Mycroft hisses.

He feels deliciously trapped, and has the heat-drunk thought that sex in estrus is not unlike bondage. The idea of Alphahood being a dominant, claiming thing seems completely incongruous to him like this, cock encased by a demanding Omega cunt, Mycroft looking satisfied and smug as he rakes red lines down Greg's back.

“Master…”

“Good pet,” Mycroft purrs, slowly rolling his hips. Greg whimpers, unable to hold his weight up fully anymore, resting on his forearms. He’d thought he might be more controlled during their second heat together, but if anything it’s worse. Perhaps his growing infatuation can be blamed. He certainly feels deliciously cherished as Mycroft, taking a break from his energetic frenzy for a moment while they’re knotted together, strokes his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead and holds him close. He sinks fully onto Mycroft’s chest and feels the Omega’s pulse beating steadily against his lips as he nuzzles his mouth to Mycroft’s neck. 

“You take good care of me,” he mumbles, half-asleep, and Mycroft laughs, but his tone is proud when he responds.

“I should hope so. You’ve given yourself to me to care for. Not a small measure of trust.”

“Course I trust you,” Greg sighs happily, nuzzling a little more. “You’re Mycroft.” 

Whether his partner actually replies to that non-sensical declaration, Greg doesn’t know, as sleep inevitably claims his body.

~*~ 

He wakes on his back, to Mycroft languorously grinding against him, astride his hips. Greg groans as his cock responds, sore from the many rounds of fucking they’ve gone through already. Only a few more before the heat breaks, he thinks, though he doesn’t have much reason left in his brain and his estimate could be wrong. Still, he can’t help the arousal that tingles through him as Mycroft moves, all confidence, hands bracing against Greg’s chest. He looks unaccountably masculine, powerful, even engaged in this seductive dance. His eyes are dilated and locked on Greg’s as he comes to. 

“Please,” Greg whispers, trying to lift his head for a kiss, but Mycroft’s hand just slides up a bit, pinning him.

“Naughty boy. No.”

Greg bites back a groan and watches, hands behind his head, feeling Mycroft drip onto his balls and thighs. The sheet is still twisted a bit about Mycroft’s waist, and Greg wishes he knew how to draw, so that he could capture this. He’s so gone that he doesn’t notice at first when a door slams upstairs, only belatedly processes the sound of that and Sherlock’s voice as Mycroft freezes and his expression goes hard. Greg’s still lying there, stunned, his cock jutting up in the air, when he realizes that Mycroft has gone up to the ground floor and that the yelling up there is a bit not good. He’s only just tied the knot on a dressing gown when he hears a loud _thud_  and manages to clear his head enough to hurry up the stairs. 

“…do not underestimate for one _second_ ,” Greg hears before he processes Mycroft holding John Watson against the wall in the foyer, Sherlock for once stunned into silence next to them. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he grabs at Mycroft’s shoulders, trying to pull him back. 

“Love, stop, what are you…”

“Don’t get near him!” Mycroft suddenly roars, turning on Greg and pushing _him_ back, away from John. “He’ll scent you…”

Greg blinks, uncertain, and then realizes what’s happening. Senses and pheromones on overdrive from heat, John’s usual Omega scent is sweeter than usual, and his own musk is undoubtedly stronger to the soldier. While caveman behavior isn’t normally his thing, there’s something about the way Mycroft herds him further into the house, protective, looking both furious and a little nervous underneath, that charms Greg. The stereotypical Alpha behavior, of course, would have him pushing out any Alpha intruders, but Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother and even if he weren’t Greg’s not sure he could summon that kind of jealousy. Mycroft’s reaction to John, despite the obvious lack of a threat, seems to cement their biological theories about submissive Alphas and dominant Omegas, so Greg yields to it, making a soothing sound as he hugs Mycroft close to his body. 

“Yours,” he mumbles in Mycroft’s ear. “All yours, love, Master, told you that you take the best care of me, didn’t I?” He nips Mycroft’s neck fondly, just a love bite, as an obviously disgusted Sherlock shouts from the foyer.

“Leaving! For God’s sake, Mycroft, learn to control yourself and warn me when you’re about to go on heat next time…” The door slams after him, and Mycroft grunts a little, but doesn’t respond otherwise. Greg has only a moment to feel a little bad for Sherlock witnessing his elder brother naked and reeking of pheromones before Mycroft claims him in a deep kiss, guiding his cock in as they stand right there in the kitchen. He has half a thought for the floors before he braces himself and lets Mycroft do his worst.

~*~

The first case that needs Sherlock’s expertise following Mycroft’s heat is awkward, to say the least. Sherlock being Sherlock simply ignores that anything ever happened, but John looks half sheepish and half nervous around Greg. Eventually, Greg takes pity on the man and invites him round the pub for a pint while Sherlock chases a lead, after texting Mycroft to explain why he needs to be home late this evening.

“He’s not normally like that,” Greg explains when they’re settled into a booth, hoping he’s not blushing. He’s no more comfortable discussing it than John, but owes the man this much. “Just, heat hormones…”

“Yeah, I got that,” John interjects. “There’s a reason why people don’t normally come round visiting halfway through a cycle. Sherlock didn’t know, obviously.”

Greg nods. “Obviously. I would’ve started texting him warnings in advance, had I thought about the embarrassing possibility.”

“Well, you couldn’t have known. He never visits Mycroft’s house, it was just that he needed something for a private case and we were nearby anyway and Mycroft wasn’t responding to his phone. I should have put two and two together.”

“No worries, mate. We’re scarred enough to avoid it for the future, anyway. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

John shakes his head. “More startled than anything. A little bruised but no more than I get rugby tackling baddies for Sherlock,” he grins. 

Greg can’t help but laugh at that. “Right then. I might’ve pegged Sherlock for a chauvinist, after some of the conversations we’ve had about sex roles and such, but he’s not putting you on any Omega pedestal, I’ve noticed.”

“Wouldn’t let him,” John counters. “Years in the army are enough to teach you not to put up with that shite. But I wouldn’t get on with him like I do if he hadn’t accepted the less conventional sides of my personality. He puts his foot in his mouth enough, sometimes about my sex, but that’s Sherlock being rude. I don’t think he subscribes to conventional notions of sex or gender at heart.”

“No. He was fascinated enough when he first found out about me. Wanted to do studies.” 

John snickers. “How do you know he hasn’t?”

“Well, I’m certainly not donating blood samples. Besides, Mycroft.”

John salutes with his pint. “Say no more. Look, I don’t want to pry, but am I allowed to ask? I’ve just assumed that the two of you are queer Alphas, and that’s fine, really,” he says in a rush, “everything’s fine, but obviously that’s not… I mean he’s not…”

“Has he talked to you at all about it?” Greg interrupts, saving John from his fumbling.

“Only one of his traditional kidnappings,” John snorts, “he wasn’t very verbose. It was essentially the 'tell anyone and I’ll kill you’ talk, though he seemed more afraid that I’d out you than him.”

Greg can’t help but smile a little at that. “He’s… protective. And he has a lot of resources to keep his own job, come to that. But yeah, you know from scent as well as me telling you. He’s an Omega. I suppose we are queer, in some way, but not what you thought.”

“Sherlock just said your dynamic was ‘unconventional.’ Does he… I mean, is he the Alpha, basically? Is that why he went off on me?”

“Not exactly, but you could think of it that way. He’s the dominant one in the relationship. Honestly our dynamic’s fairly traditional, aside from it being the reverse of the usual. I kneel for him at home.” It’s a little odd talking about this with John, who’s just as reserved and English as he is, but Greg’s not ashamed of his position. He’s proud of it, even, especially when it comes to talking with someone as non-judgmental as John.

“Huh. Well… your secret’s safe with me, mate. Aside from not wanting to get offed by some lurking agent in a nondescript suit, I really don’t care. If your thing is… a thing… it’s not fair that you could suffer consequences for it.”

“Right.” Greg smiles. “Well, cheers, mate.” He clinks his glass to John’s. “Should we go try to track down Sherlock, do you think?”

John sighs. “Might as well. Who knows what he’s got himself into by now…”

~*~ 

Greg thinks the moment he knows he can trust this thing to last is when he catches a slight adjustment to Mycroft’s fastidious decorating scheme, something Greg has felt no need to alter since moving in. Nothing overt, no rearranging of the furniture, but Greg’s favorite dark blue mug, chipped a bit on the handle, is suddenly sitting incongruously in the glass-front kitchen cabinet next to Mycroft’s row of neat white teacups. The cardboard box where it’s been living is gone, along with a few others, and Greg finds his own blue fluffy bath towels alongside Mycroft’s in the linen closet, pictures of his children arranged tastefully in the living room. The plain cream-colored cushion that usually sits by the kitchen table to protect Greg’s knees is replaced with a somewhat worn but terribly comfortable overstuffed green throw pillow, though Mycroft puts it away on the rare occasion he entertains company.

Greg thinks he’s rather old enough to offer a bit of compromise, and he tells Mycroft so, kneeling on the pillow after a rare Saturday-morning lie-in, Mycroft sipping tea still clad in his silk pajamas. The younger man laughs and touches his cheek, and then bends to kiss the top of Greg’s head. Greg tucks the memory away for a rainy day and lets his forehead rest for a moment against his Master’s thigh, feeling the soothing pattern of nails raking along the back of his neck. He wishes they’d told him, in secondary school when he was first learning about the importance of sex and gender, about how his Alpha status would come to be terribly important in ten years’ time, that he could be this happy one day.

But then again, he probably wouldn’t have believed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the briefer final chapter, but it felt like the right place to end it. I'm half-considering a little addendum in this verse featuring John Watson, but I'm going to take a break first. Thank you for all the gorgeous comments and support for this little queer!A/O romp.


End file.
